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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603311">Please, God, Let Me Live</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG'>KathyG</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>John Watson's Life [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Army Doctor John Watson, Battle, Blood and Injury, Canon Compliant, Complications, Depressed John Watson, Gen, Hospitalization, Hurt John Watson, Illnesses, Injured John Watson, John Watson Whump, John Watson in Afghanistan, Lonely John Watson, Major Character Injury, Medical Trauma, Military, Near Death, No Slash, PTSD John, Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Pre-Sherlock, Prequel, Psychological Trauma, Serious Illness, Serious Injuries, Suicidal John Watson, Suicidal Thoughts, Trauma, War, gunshot wound, pre-Season One, shoulder wound</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 05:41:58</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>70,228</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28603311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyG/pseuds/KathyG</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In this prequel to "A Study in Pink," Captain John Hamish Watson, MBBS, licensed general practitioner, and combat surgeon in training, is shot while on a retrieval mission in Afghanistan, and spends weeks afterwards battling complications and fighting for his life.  Originally written and posted as a one-shot, it has since been expanded into a 20-chapter pre-Sherlock story, covering the time from John’s shooting until he returns to London.  Be forewarned: Sherlock himself makes no appearance at all in this story!   I’ve modeled this story on Pompey’s <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4029558/1/On-Afghanistan-s-Plains">“On Afghanistan’s Plains,”</a> which is posted on Fanfiction.net.  (Thanks to Besleybean for beta-reading and Brit-picking my story!  And to sgam76 for helping me to get some details straight.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bill Murray &amp; John Watson, Harry Watson &amp; John Watson, John Watson &amp; Original Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>John Watson's Life [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2015687</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Skirmish</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts">sgam76</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/gifts">BlueSkye12</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetgirl/gifts">bakerstreetgirl</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pompey/gifts">Pompey</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellingtonboots/gifts">wellingtonboots</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fangs_Fawn/gifts">Fangs_Fawn</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>In the military, a bullet wound alone is not considered grounds for a medical discharge.  Even though John's left shoulder is extensively damaged in this story, given the sheer amount of repair work that his shoulder goes through and the rehab he undergoes afterwards, the army would keep him if at all possible, even if he had to be assigned amended duties at least for a time.  His skills are too valuable and too desperately needed for the army to let him go if there's any way that it can hold onto him.  Something more has to happen, to prompt the decision to invalid him out of the army.  I have my own ideas of what that something more could be, and you'll see what it turns out to be as you read the story.  In the process, poor John has an awfully rough time of it!</p><p>When <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/u/107193/Pompey">Pompey</a> set out to write her great ACD story, “On Afghanistan’s Plains,” her goal was to write a canonical and historically accurate account of what happened to Dr. Watson in Afghanistan from the day he was shot to the day he met Sherlock Holmes, based on what is told in Sir Arthur Conan Doyles’s first Sherlock story, <i>A Study in Scarlet</i>.  As a result of the sheer amount of research that she engaged in beforehand, she did a marvelous job of attaining her goal!  Since it was sometime after BBC Sherlock's third season came on the air that I read her story, which was posted on Fanfiction.net back in 2008, I really wanted someone to write a comparable account of what happened to modern-day John in Moffat and Gatiss’s version of Sherlock Holmes.  Alas, Pompey herself showed no interest in writing such a story, and I could find no other story that did.  A number of stories about John getting shot in Afghanistan, yes, but nothing that told the whole story.  It finally became clear that if such a story was ever to be written, I would have to write it.  Early this year, I wrote a one-shot about that fateful day, and sometime after that, I extended the story into a 20-chapter novel.</p><p>In writing this story, I've drawn on the back history I gave John that is described in "Background Check," which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11718191/1/Background-Check">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658772/chapters/13033933">Archive of Our Own</a>.  The back history in that story, in turn, is based in part on the articles that are posted on wellingtongoose’s <a href="https://wellingtongoose.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and <a href="http://wellingtongoose.livejournal.com/">LiveJournal</a> accounts, and partly on the history that BlueSkye12, in the stories on her <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4420770/BlueSkye12">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12">Archive of our Own</a> accounts, has given John Watson.  I have used that same back history to create this story.</p><p>In truth, I've borrowed from the stories of several great fanfiction authors—mainly BlueSkye12, as explained above, and bakerstreetgirl, but also others, including <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76">sgam76</a>—as well as wellingtongoose's equally great metas, to create John’s back story.  And I’ve modeled this story on Pompey’s <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4029558/1/On-Afghanistan-s-Plains">On Afghanistan’s Plains,”</a> which is posted on Fanfiction.net.  I highly recommend that everybody who hasn’t yet done so head over there and read her story! =)  And then, when you've finished it, read her equally great post-Hiatus sequel to that story, <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4083952/1/A-Young-British-Soldier">“A Young British Soldier”</a>!</p><p>This story is also posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13788912/1/Please-God-Let-Me-Live">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://zorrothefox2000.webs.com/BBCSherlock/Please%20God%20Let%20Me%20Live/tableofcontents.html">Webs.com</a>.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Since this chapter started out as a one-shot, I've edited it to transform it into Chapter 1.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>JULY 27, 2009: <b>(1)</b> FOB HAMIDULLAH, SANGIN VALLEY, HELMAND PROVINCE, AFGHANISTAN

</p><p>13:30 p.m., army time (1:30 p.m.)

</p><p>Captain John Watson lay on his cot, reading <i>The Lord of the Rings</i>, which he had purchased back in England while on leave before the Fusiliers had been redeployed to that U.S. base in Kandahar.  He hadn’t had a real chance to start reading it yet; so much had happened since then.  Finally, though, there was some downtime, and he had a chance to catch his breath and relax.  And read his new book, which he had just started reading the night before.  Only, after almost two years, it wasn’t so new anymore.  Until lights out, the captain had read voraciously the introduction, the prologue, and the first three chapters of the novel.  Since he had read <i>The Hobbit</i> as a child, this was a return to a fantasy world he had enjoyed back then.

</p><p>So far, it had been a normal day—well, as normal as any day could be for a trainee trauma surgeon stationed at *FOB Hamidullah in Helmand Province.  He had eaten breakfast with Major James Sholto, their unit’s commanding officer, as he usually did on a weekly basis, sometimes with Dr. Robert Clancy, the consultant surgeon.  Sholto and his men had since gone out on patrol; only Dr. Clancy, Dr. Watson, and the nurses had stayed behind, in case any casualties were brought in.  After breakfast, Dr. Watson and Dr. Clancy had gone on their daily rounds of their patients in the field hospital; for now, there were only a few, so there was plenty of downtime at present.  They both knew, though, that that could change at any time.

</p><p>Stopping to rest his eyes, Dr. Watson glanced up at the calendar on the bulletin board.  It was Monday, July 27th, 2009.  And the wall clock showed that it was 13:30.  He smiled at the memory of Corporal Tanner taking another photograph of him two weeks earlier; he had emailed it to Clara as soon as time had permitted.  His older sister, Harry, should have it by now.  <b>(2)</b> It had long since become his practice to send pictures of himself to his sister every few months; since he didn’t own a camera, and since Corporal Tanner did, the good corporal always used his to take those pictures.  John always made sure that there was nothing in the pictures that would upset or irritate Harry.  In some of the photos, John posed by himself; in the others, he posed with some or all of his mates.  Mates whom he had long since become close friends with during his years in Afghanistan.

</p><p><i>Three years,</i> he thought.  <i>Ending up my second tour, so I’ve been in Afghanistan for close to three years now.</i>  Clearing his throat, he turned his attention back to the chapter he had arrived at, Chapter Four: “A Short Cut to Mushrooms”.  He was reading the part about the hobbits’ efforts to evade the Black Riders while they were travelling.

</p><p>Suddenly, just as John came to the sequence where the hobbits ran into Farmer Maggot, there was a siren, and John leaped off the bed, inserted a bookmark into the chapter, and dropped his book on the nightstand.  Dr. Clancy hurried into John's officer's quarters.  “The patrol Sholto took the Fusiliers out on split up, and some of them joined another patrol that was out looking for trouble.  That bunch has run into a skirmish five kilometres west of Sangin; from what I hear tell, a bad one.  You better hurry, Watson,” he ordered.  “Murray’s already waiting at the helicopter.”

</p><p>“Yes, Major.”  Nodding acquiescence, the trainee combat surgeon hastily donned his armour, snatched up his pack, glanced briefly back at his novel, and rushed out the door and outside.  <i>I’ll pick up where I left off later,</i> he thought.  <i>Right now, I’ve got work to do.</i>

</p><p>He knew what this meant; he and possibly other trainee surgeons and their nurses would have to retrieve the wounded soldiers and bring them in.  Fortunately, he was well-trained in field medicine techniques; they would come in handy in stabilising the soldiers for transport.  He was equally well-trained in defending his patients and himself when the need arose, as it did all too often.

</p><p>Dr. Clancy was right; one of the nurses, Staff Sergeant Bill Murray, was already waiting by the medevac helicopter.  “Captain Watson,” he said.  They boarded the helicopter, which rose into the air and flew off.

</p><p>“Captain, when we were reunited at Bastion following our deployments, did you ever think we’d be doing this stuff?” Murray asked, a few minutes later.  “I mean, not just tending patients, but shooting at the enemy?”

</p><p>Dr. Watson shrugged and cleared his throat.  “Well, I had an idea, once I arrived here.  Dr. Clancy warned me that once I got started on my Specialty training, I’d start having to go on retrieval missions to battle zones.  But I wasn’t really prepared for how often that need would arise.”  He shook his head.  “Neither of us even considered any of this when we first met at King’s College!”  Snorting, Bill nodded agreement.  Glancing down at his side, John patted his SIG Sauer P226 in his holster.  He briefly pushed back his helmet to wipe the gathering sweat off his face.

</p><p>Minutes later, the helicopter landed close to a group of soldiers, some of whom were clearly wounded, in the vicinity of several mud-brick houses.  The wounded all lay on the ground, with combat medical technicians already tending to them.  The uninjured soldiers had set up a perimeter facing outward, guarding both their vehicles and the wounded.  For the moment, anyway, the fighting seemed to have ended.  A few other medevac helicopters had already arrived.  Good.  With extra transport, the wounded soldiers could be evacuated more quickly—hopefully before the fighting resumed, as it likely would.  Off to the side, an armoured BBC reporter, who’d been embedded with the unit for the last few months, was taking footage of the action.

</p><p>Scanning the injured soldiers collectively to determine who needed immediate treatment and who couldn’t be saved, Dr. Watson strode toward one whose right arm was bleeding profusely, Sergeant Murray at his heels.  The doctor knelt down at the soldier’s side; since he didn’t recognize that soldier, it was evident that he must be from the other patrol that some of the Fusiliers had joined with.  The reporter moved closer to film the soldier’s field treatment.

</p><p>“You’re going to be all right,” he said soothingly.  “Private—?”

</p><p>“Private Thompson,” the soldier said, wincing in pain.

</p><p>“Well, Private Thompson, you’ve got yourself some damage to your arm, but I’m going to fix you right up.”

</p><p>It was indeed quite a nasty wound; a large vein had been punctured, causing haemorrhaging.  Already, a pool of blood had spread all over his arm and had formed a growing puddle on the grass.  Unless John and Bill acted quickly, the soldier would bleed to death.  “Hold his arm still,” John ordered Bill, who grasped the soldier’s hand and held it. 
 The doctor’s voice softened as he turned his attention back to the injured soldier.  “Private, I’m not going to lie to you; this is going to hurt.  But if I don’t stop the bleeding, you’ll die, and I’m not going to let that happen.”  He winked at Bill.  “Hold Sergeant Murray’s hand if you want—he likes that.”  Wincing, the soldier nodded as he managed a smirk, and Murray smirked back.  As Murray held Thompson’s arm still with his right hand, Captain Watson wrapped a tourniquet around the upper arm, the soldier, stifling his moans of pain, squeezed Murray’s left hand so hard, it turned red.

</p><p>“I know, mate; it hurts like the billy-o,” Murray told the soldier soothingly.  “Just hang in there; it’ll be over soon.  They’ll fix up your arm at the field hospital, and then you’ll be good as new.”

</p><p>As soon as Captain Watson had written down on a strip of surgical tape the time that he’d wrapped the tourniquet and stuck the tape directly above it, a pair of waiting corpsmen moved Thompson onto a stretcher and carried him toward the helicopter several yards away.  For the next 15 minutes, as the reporter continued filming what they were doing, Dr. Watson and Nurse Murray, having already set up triage, hurried from one injured soldier to another, starting with the ones who were the most seriously wounded and yet had a chance to survive.  Their comrades from Bastion did the same thing, treating each soldier in turn.  Fortunately, for once, none of the wounded had any black crosses on their foreheads that marked them as not likely to survive, much to John’s relief.  One by one, they loaded the wounded soldiers onto the first group of evac helicopters, which flew off.

</p><p>Suddenly, just as the medevac helicopters’ roar died off, gunfire sounded from the nearby hills, startling everyone.  Immediately, the uninjured soldiers started shooting back.  Dr. Watson remained focused on his patient, one of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, trusting that the other soldiers would have his back; however, he was fully prepared to start shooting if the need arose.  Fortunately, that soldier’s injuries were minor, and so as soon as Captain Watson was done treating him, the latter grabbed his rifle and returned fire.  Meanwhile, as a villager stood nearby, a rifle in his hand, one of the soldiers broke the house’s mud-brick door open and darted inside in an attempt to get some cover from the incoming gunfire; others knelt at the wall of sandbags and continued to fire.  For the next several minutes, there was a raging gun battle around them, with the reporter filming while Dr. Watson and Nurse Murray darted from one injured soldier to another, to treat his wounds; several times, John had to stop treating his patient to fire at whoever was trying to shoot them.  Since he shot with impeccable aim, every insurgent he shot at fell instantly.  All the while, some of the uninjured soldiers knelt on the packed earth behind the sandbags, with some of them firing, and others opening their packs.  Others darted here and there across the grass and knelt behind shrubs, firing shots.  Insurgents fired several mortars that exploded here and there; the soldiers fired their own mortars back.

</p><p>“Watson!” one of the Fusiliers shouted.  John leaped to his feet; one of the other soldiers, another Fusilier, had been hit.  Leaping over the sandbags and rushing towards him, he tended the soldier’s injury.  Fortunately, it was just a flesh wound, nothing life-threatening.

</p><p>As Captain Watson and the soldier rose to their feet, the doctor scanned the other soldiers to see who else needed treatment.  Suddenly, one of the soldiers, who was running toward a better vantage point from which to fire at the enemy, dropped on his stomach; an instant later, an IED went off close to him.  John didn’t need to be by his side to see that the soldier’s right leg had been torn apart.  He would have to treat him immediately.  “Murray!” he shouted, and rushed toward the seriously injured soldier, Murray behind him.  In that same instant, the gunfire and explosions stopped.  The reporter followed the two men with his camera.

</p><p>John and Bill knelt by the soldier, a Fusilier.  “It’s Corporal Ryan,” John said, biting his lower lip.  “While I’m having a look at his leg, find the injury that put him down, to begin with,” he ordered his nurse, who nodded and got to work.  Captain Watson shook his head; already, the soldier’s trousers were stained with blood.  Removing a knife from his pack, the doctor cut the trouser leg off so that he could have a better look at the injury.  He shook his head.   Just below the corporal’s knee, there were exposed blood vessels and bones, and heavy bleeding.  Unless John could stop the bleeding, the soldier would be dead within minutes.  As it was, the odds were great that part of the corporal’s leg would have to be amputated.

</p><p>Minutes passed as Dr. Watson gave Corporal Ryan a shot of morphine, wrapped a tourniquet around his leg just above the knee, wrote down on a strip of surgical tape the time that he’d wrapped the tourniquet, and stuck the tape directly above it.  As soon as he had finished that, he clamped the veins and arteries that had been oozing and spurting copious amounts of blood.  Murray, meanwhile, checked Ryan’s bullet wound.

</p><p>“Murray?” John asked, as he worked.

</p><p>“In one respect, he’s lucky; it’s just a flesh wound.  Only a crease—the bullet’s not still in the wound,” Murray said, as he put some antiseptic on the wound.

</p><p>“Good.”  Captain Watson nodded.  “At least, in his case, we won’t have to remove a bullet.”  Murray taped a bandage over the wound while John tended the leg.

</p><p>“Doc?”  Corporal Ryan’s voice was tight with evident pain and fear.  “It’s—it’s bad, isn’t it?”

</p><p>John laid a hand on the soldier’s arm.  “I won’t lie to you, Corporal Ryan; you’ve sustained a very nasty wound to your leg, here,” he said softly.  “We’ll take you first to our FOB <b>(1)</b>, so Dr. Clancy can have a good look at you.  Your leg needs to be temporarily stabilised before we can take you any further; once that’s done, we’ll take you by chopper onto Bastion.”  He gently squeezed the corporal’s arm.  “The sooner we can get you there, the better; there are good surgeons at Bastion who’ll be able to help.  Don’t worry, you’ll be in good hands there, I promise you.  Just hang in there, corporal.”

</p><p>“I hope so,” Corporal Ryan whispered, his eyes squeezed tightly from pain.  “I—I got a family back home, waiting for me, you know.”

</p><p>Dr. Watson squeezed his arm.  “Then we’re going to have to do everything in our power to make sure you return to them, aren’t we?  And I fully intend to do that, don’t you worry.”  He wrapped two pressure bandages around the soldier’s leg, underneath the tourniquet.

</p><p>Suddenly, two gunshots rang out almost simultaneously, followed by several more.  An instant after the first gunshot, an explosion of pain in John’s left shoulder registered in his brain as a blinding, white-hot flash.  He fell forward and dropped face-down to the ground.  “Doctor Watson!” he heard the injured corporal shriek out in horror, as if from a distance.  The next thing he knew, an unfamiliar voice was calling in an air strike.  At the same time, Murray cut the straps to get Dr. Watson’s armour loose so that he could work, and that same unfamiliar voice was radioing for an extra evac helicopter to evacuate the remaining injured, <i>stat</i>!  John’s shoulder was in excruciating pain; try as he did, he could not completely muffle the moans he sought valiantly to suppress.

</p><p>“Corporal—Corporal Ryan—” Captain Watson muttered, as he fought valiantly to stifle his moans.

</p><p>“One of the medics is tending him as I speak,” Murray assured him, as he pressed a pressure bandage against the entrance wound, gave him a shot of morphine, which began to ease the excruciating agony, and then rolled the wounded doctor slowly and a bit carefully onto his back.  “Don’t worry, sir, he’s not being neglected.”  The doctor gave him a brief nod.

</p><p>Bill started to make sure that John’s airway was secure, and that he was breathing OK.  For the moment, he was, so Bill packed the exit wound with some specialized gauze packing that was permeated with coagulant gel.  He literally shoved the gauze into the hole, hard, and then secured it with some bandages around Dr. Watson’s body.  Out of the corner of his eye, John could see the reporter standing close by them, filming the three of them.  <i>He’s probably using the zoom feature of his video camera to get a close-up of my wound!</i> he thought.  Momentary irritation at the reporter surged in his heart, only to be pushed out by the heaviness of thought that the morphine was causing.  When the nurse was finished, he leaned back to assess the captain’s general condition.

</p><p>After a moment, Bill cleared his throat.  “Sir, I packed the exit wound and slowed the bleeding—you’ll be heading right into surgery as soon as you get to Bastion.  I won’t lie to you, captain—the bullet entered your shoulder, near the joint.”

</p><p>Nodding, the doctor squeezed his eyes shut.  He knew that Murray was right.  Meanwhile, more gunshots continued to ring out until the familiar roar of a helicopter drowned them all, followed by the fast, heavy stutter of a mounted machine gun from the chopper; in the next instant, the gunshots ceased.

</p><p>“How—how bad?” he muttered.

</p><p>“Can’t tell for sure till we get in there,” Murray said.  “Your shoulder’s shattered, sir.”  John nodded again.  The armour-piercing bullet had gone right through his scapula and clavicle before exiting his body, he knew; only his front armour had stopped it.  There was no telling how much damage his shoulder had sustained.  Since the morphine had taken effect, his pain had been dulled.  However, he knew that his injury was life-threatening.

</p><p>“Please, God, let me live,” he whispered.  Clenching his fists, he took a deep breath.  Silently, he added, <i>Please, God, I’m not ready to die!  Please let me live.</i>

</p><p>A few minutes later, John could hear the roar of an approaching helicopter that soon landed.  Good.  Help was coming.  Shortly, he could feel hands touching him, lifting him off the ground.  Opening his eyes, Captain Watson looked down at his shoulder and bit his lower lip as he looked at the heavy, already-blood-soaked bandage that had been packed around the bullet wound.

</p><p>As the reporter videotaped them with his camera, the medics gently and efficiently laid Captain Watson and the soldier he’d been treating on the stretchers and carried them to the evac helicopter, with Murray trotting at Dr. Watson’s side and one of the medics staying by Corporal Ryan’s side; as soon as they’d been loaded, the medevac chopper rose into the air and flew off.  Shortly, it started becoming harder and harder for the doctor to breathe; his efforts to take deep breaths failed.

</p><p>“No time to take you back to <b>(1)</b> FOB Hamidullah, sir,” Murray told him, as he slipped an oxygen mask over the captain’s head and over his nose and mouth.  His breathing immediately became easier.  “We’re gonna have to take you and the corporal straight to Bastion and right into surgery.”  John nodded.  He knew all too well what that meant: something was very, very wrong; he was dying.  He might well die before they even reached Bastion.

</p><p>“Please, God, let me live,” he whispered again.

</p><p>Bill touched his arm.  “In a way, Captain, you’re lucky,” he said.  “An inch or so lower down, and you’d have taken that bullet right in the heart.”  John nodded.

</p><p>A moment later, he started really struggling to breathe, and his breathing developed a wheezing gurgle to it.  He began coughing up and choking what felt like fluid.  <i>Bullet must have nicked my left lung, maybe punctured it,</i> he thought, silently swearing.  The next thing he knew, the metallic taste of blood appeared in his mouth, and his breathing sounded more and more liquidly.  He didn’t need to see the oxygen mask to know that specks of blood must be appearing on the inside of his oxygen mask.  He was dying; he knew it.

</p><p>“Uh, sir,” Murray said quietly, “we better insert a chest tube.”

</p><p>Dr. Watson nodded.  “Do it, then,” he said in a loud whisper.  In a lower whisper, Captain Watson prayed again, “Please, God, let me live.”

</p><p>Murray injected a local anaesthetic into John’s chest.  As a result, when the nurse made an incision next to the spot where he had injected the needle and inserted the chest tube, all that John felt was pressure.  When the procedure was finished, it became easier to breathe once more, but the helicopter was darkening.  “Please, God, let me live,” he whispered yet again.  “Please, God, let me live.”

</p><p>“Captain?”  Sounding frantic, his nurse was raising his voice to get his attention.  His eyes were wide with fear.  He screamed, “John!  Captain John Watson, don’t you dare fall asleep on me now!  Just hang on, sir; stay with us!”  He swore.

</p><p>“Please, Captain Watson, stay awake!” Corporal Ryan begged.  “We need you!”

</p><p>Try as John did, he could not do as Murray was begging him to do.  “Please, God, let me live,” he whispered again.  As soon as he had finished whispering that prayer for the last time, everything went black, and just before he lost all consciousness, he was convinced that it was over for him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(1)</b> FOB: forward operating base.  I have no way of knowing which of the FOBs had their own field hospitals in 2009, so I invented one for FOB Hamidullah.</p><p><b>(2)</b> The bit about the photos, I borrowed from BlueSkye12’s story, “Permission Denied,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9869349/1/Permission-Denied">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055897">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p>I've borrowed from John's nightmare at the beginning of "A Study in Pink" to create the scenario in which he got shot.</p><p>(One thing's becoming evident: even though I only wrote these end notes above for the one-shot that became Chapter 1, they're going to be showing up at the end of the other chapters! =)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Bastion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John is rushed into emergency surgery at Camp Bastion, and Dr. Clancy and Major Sholto are informed about his critical injury.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I've added a little more detail to this chapter, so to anyone who's already read Chapter 2, feel free to read it again!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MONDAY, JULY 27, 2009: CAMP BASTION, HELMAND PROVINCE

</p><p>17:10 p.m. (5:10 p.m.)

</p><p>“Move!  Move!  Move!” the consultant orthopaedic surgeon at Camp Bastion’s field hospital ordered, as the orderlies rushed the trolley that the unconscious Captain John Watson lay on into the hospital.  Murray followed behind them, and the medic accompanied Corporal Ryan on the other trolley.  Bill had just filled the surgeon in on what had happened to Captain Watson and Corporal Ryan back at the skirmish.  During the flight, he’d had to bag-breathe the unconscious doctor for the rest of the flight when he had stopped breathing, and to give him CPR when his heart had stopped beating.  Turning to Murray, the surgeon ordered, “You wait for us in the waiting room, Sergeant Murray.  You’ve done your job, and now it’s time for us to do ours.  My nurses will assist me in trying to save the life of Dr. Watson, and one of the other orthopaedic surgeons will look after Corporal Ryan.”

</p><p>Murray nodded.  “Yes, sir.”  Looking at the doctor’s name tag, he added, “Dr. Roland.”  Much as he wanted to stay by his superior officer’s side and assist with the surgery, he knew that the surgeon had everyone he needed to operate on Dr. Watson and try to save his life.

</p><p>Dr. Jack Roland gave the nurse a nod, and then the trauma team rushed John right into one of the operating rooms and laid him on the operating table, where Dr. Roland and his trauma team immediately started prepping him for surgery.  Meanwhile, in the light beige waiting room, whipping his mobile phone out of his pocket, Murray rang Dr. Clancy to bring him up to date.  “He’s in theatre now, sir, and so are the other soldiers who are critically injured,” he said.  “They’re prepping them all as I speak.”

</p><p>“Keep me posted,” Major Clancy ordered.

</p><p>Murray nodded, even though he knew that the doctor couldn’t see him on the other end.  “Yes, sir.”  Dr. Clancy hung up, and Murray slipped his phone back into his pocket.  He knew that Dr. Clancy would tell Major Sholto as soon as the latter returned to base.  Meanwhile, there was nothing for him to do but wait.

</p><p>“Where are you hurt, Sergeant Murray?” a female nurse asked him.

</p><p>Startled, Bill leaped to his feet and glanced down at his blood-drenched trousers and his blood-spattered shirt.  He remembered that nurse; he and Dr. Watson had worked with her when the Fusiliers had been stationed there at Camp Bastionduring John’s first year in Afghanistan.  “Oh!  I didn’t even notice.  Hi, good to see you again.  That’s not my blood,” he said.  “That’s Dr. Watson’s blood, and Corporal Ryan’s blood, and the blood of the other soldiers Captain Watson and I tended at the skirmish before he was shot.”  He shook his head.  “So much blood.  So many hurt.  I just hope they all survive.”  He sighed.  “Especially Captain Watson.”

</p><p>The nurse touched his arm.  “I hope they will, too, Sergeant Murray.  Meanwhile, why don’t you come with me?  I’ll get you some spare khakis to wear while we wash the ones you’re wearing.”

</p><p>Murray smiled gratefully.  “Thank you.”  He followed her down the hall to another room.

</p><p>Several minutes later, wearing fresh khakis, he returned to the waiting room, where he took a seat against the wall and waited.  He knew from long experience both in and out of operating rooms that it would be a lengthy wait.  Not only did John’s shoulder have to be repaired, but so did his subclavian artery, and he would have to be given units of whole blood.  He would also need a chest tube for his punctured lung.  And that was assuming he could even be kept alive on the operating table long enough for the surgical procedures to be finished.  With a sigh, Bill leaned against the soft cushion-covered backrest of the armchair he had just reclined in.  The air conditioner hummed in the background, and the air in the waiting room felt pleasantly cool.

</p><p>Several hours later, Dr. Roland returned to the waiting room, wearing scrubs.  Bill leaped to his feet.  “What’s the news?”  He scanned the doctor’s eyes as he spoke.

</p><p>Dr. Roland waited a moment, removing the light blue surgical cap from his head.  “The good news is, he’s alive—for now.”  

</p><p>Relaxing, Bill nodded.  “I’m glad.”  He swallowed hard.  “I could see bits of muscle and bone in his shoulder wound when I tended him.  And shards of his clavicle were sticking out.”  He bit his lower lip.  “Like quills.”

</p><p>“I’m not surprised.”  Dr. Roland looked sombre.  “Dr. Watson sustained a horrific injury; there was significant damage to his soft tissue, and to his ligaments and one of the nerves.  The bullet destroyed his entire shoulder.  His scapula was shattered, and his clavicle was reduced to splinters.  And the bullet punctured his left lung and made its exit from his body just above his heart.”

</p><p>He shook his head.  “I’ll be honest with you, sergeant: it’s a miracle he’s even alive.  He was critically injured when he arrived here.  He flat-lined on the operating table just as we were about to get started; we had to give him CPR and several more units of whole blood before we could operate.”

</p><p>Bill grimaced.  “That’s the second time he’s done that,” he said.  “The first time he did it, we were in the helicopter.  I had to bag-breathe him the rest of the way.”

</p><p>Dr. Roland nodded.  “Well, I’m glad to report that the subclavian artery’s been repaired, so he faces no further danger on that score.  For the moment, there’s a chest tube in his left lung, and he’s on a ventilator.  And since his entire shoulder was destroyed, it has undergone quite extensive repair work; in the process, I inserted a metal fixation plate to hold together the clavicle and scapula, along with some pins and a screw.  However, he’s going to need more surgeries before its function is ever even close to what it was before.  It won’t be back up to 100 percent, I can tell you that; too much damage for that.  Among other things, his posterior cord has been visibly damaged; that’s going to result in a measure of nerve damage to his arm and his hand.  The amount of impairment he’ll have to endure altogether, once he’s completed his surgeries and his rehab, remains to be seen.”  He paused.  “The pins and screw will always have to be there, but it may eventually be possible to remove the fixation plate.” <b>(3)</b>

</p><p>Murray nodded.  “Surely, he can return to his work as a surgeon once his shoulder has healed, though.”  Even though he worded that sentence as a statement, he voiced it as a question.  He added, “He’s left-handed.”

</p><p>“I see.”  Dr. Roland shrugged.  “Well, if there are no serious complications, and if the nerve damage isn’t too severe.  Right now, we’ll just have to wait and see what develops.”

</p><p>Bill glanced at the door leading into the hallway.  “I should like to see him and Corporal Ryan before I call Major Clancy.  He’ll want to know how it went, and so will Major Sholto when he returns from his patrol and learns of this.”

</p><p>Dr. Roland nodded.  “Come with me.  I’ve already got him started on antibiotics, and we’re giving him some more units of whole blood while he’s in recovery.  Don’t expect him to respond to you; the anaesthesia hasn’t begun to wear off yet, and we don’t know if he’ll yet regain consciousness when it does.”  Murray nodded and followed the doctor down the hall towards the surgical unit and into the recovery room.

</p><p>He froze upon seeing the unconscious captain/trainee combat surgeon.  John lay on his back, his entire body unmoving, his eyes closed, his face blank as well as unnaturally pale from the anaesthesia.  A thick white bandage with a spot on it that was a little pink was wrapped around his left shoulder, and his whole left arm was in a sling and bandaged to his chest.  Tears streaked down Dr. Watson’s face along with sweat and dirt, and his sandy-blond hair was dirty.  As Dr. Roland had warned Bill, John was on a ventilator which breathed for him, and a chest tube had been inserted into his left lung.  He was attached to a heart monitor, an IV needle had been inserted into and taped to his right wrist, and a blood pressure cuff had been wrapped around his upper right arm.  A soft plastic bag of whole blood hung from the IV.  Bill swore.

</p><p>“I know, sergeant,” Dr. Roland said sympathetically.  “My sentiments exactly.  But he’s alive.  Right now, that’s the important thing.  He came that close to death twice before we managed to pull him back from its brink—the first time, in the medevac chopper, from what you told me.  The second time, it happened on the operating table.  We had to give him CPR and several units of whole blood before we could even begin to repair his shoulder while he was in theatre, and we’re giving him a few more units of blood now, as you can see.”

</p><p>“I do.”  Murray swallowed hard.  “And I—I know.  And thanks.”  He looked at Dr. Roland, who nodded.  “Thanks for saving his life, Dr. Roland.”

</p><p>He approached the cot and took John’s right hand.  “You’d better pull through, captain.  And you’d better wake up quickly.  There’s a lot of people waiting for you back at the base, you know.  Major Sholto’s not going to like this.  Dr. Clancy won’t, either.”

</p><p>Nurse Murray squeezed Dr. Watson’s hand, but there was no response.  For a moment, as he gazed down sorrowfully at John’s blank expression and the unnatural pallor of his skin, he listened to the ventilator’s hisses and pushes as it did the captain’s breathing for him, and then exchanged a glance with the nurse who was tending John.

</p><p>Then Bill crossed the recovery room to have a look at Corporal Ryan.  His right leg had been amputated below the knee, and the end of the stump was covered with thick white bandages.  He was still asleep from the anaesthesia, and his face was as pale as John’s, but he was beginning to stir a little.  Bill winced at the sight.

</p><p>Dr. Roland laid a hand on his shoulder.  “You’d better wait in the waiting room, Sergeant Murray,” he said.  “As you can see, they’re in good hands, and it’s going to be several hours before either of them is moved to ICU.  And you need to notify the FOB you’re stationed at, don’t you?”

</p><p>Clearing his throat, Bill nodded.  “Y—yes.  Yeah, I do.  You’re right.  I’ve already contacted Dr. Clancy to tell him what happened, but I need to ring him again.”  With one last sorrowful look at the seriously wounded trainee trauma surgeon, he followed Dr. Roland out of recovery and back to the waiting room.  Upon taking his cushioned seat against the wall, he removed his mobile phone from his pocket and rang Major Clancy.  Once the consultant surgeon answered his phone, it took Bill several minutes bring him up to date on Captain Watson’s and Corporal Ryan’s conditions.  When he had finished, Dr. Clancy swore.

</p><p>“Thank you, Murray.”  He paused.  “I’ll let Major Sholto know when he gets back from patrol.  Since some of the soldiers wounded in that skirmish, including Corporal Ryan, were wounded while taking part in that other patrol, so he’ll want to know about them as well as about Captain Watson.  He’ll doubtless be on his way to Bastion have a look for himself as soon as he knows.”

</p><p>“Right.”  Bill nodded.  “You gonna have a helicopter ready for him, then?”

</p><p>“Yes.  In the meantime, you stay there with Dr. Watson until Major Sholto arrives.  You can return with him.”

</p><p>Murray nodded again.  “Yes, sir.”

</p><p>“See you later.”  Dr. Clancy hung up.

</p><p>Bill leaned back against the chair’s soft cushioned backrest and sighed.  Deep worry engulfed his heart.  Dr. John Watson wasn’t just his superior officer or one of the doctors he took orders from; he was Bill’s friend.  They’d been friends ever since they had first met back at King’s College several years before.  Back then, Bill had been in his first year of nursing school, and John had been in his second year of medical school.  Although their busy schedules hadn’t allowed them to spend a lot of time together during their years at King’s College London, they had nevertheless become good friends until John had graduated.

</p><p>During that two-year period, when time had permitted, they had sometimes gone out together on double dates, each with his own girlfriend; the frequency with which John had found a new woman to go out with had led Bill to tease him about being a ladies’ man, although, in truth, John had always been a perfect gentleman with all of the women he’d romanced.  Then the two of them had met again when John had embarked on his year as senior house officer at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital.  Not long after John had finished his two years as house officer and embarked on a general practitioner training programme, Bill had decided to join the army.  He had been transferred to the Fusiliers after John had been assigned to train under Dr. Clancy.

</p><p><i>Imagine my surprise, when I was assigned to work under the consultant surgeon who’s assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, to find that Dr. John Watson had decided to become a surgeon instead of a GP, and was training under him!  After getting his licence as a GP,</i> he thought.  <i>Guess I shouldn’t really have been surprised, though; he </i>was<i> in the Army Reserves all the time he was training to become a doctor, though he was a non-commissioned officer back then.  He probably found the prospect of diagnosing sniffles and ulcers too boring.</i>  Despite his worry, Bill smiled at the memory.  It had been such a pleasant surprise, and the two of them had worked together ever since.  At the time, Dr. Watson had been a second lieutenant, and Nurse Murray had been a corporal; since then, John had advanced in the ranks to lieutenant and then to captain, and Bill had been promoted to sergeant and then to staff sergeant.  If he got promoted again, it would be to warrant officer, and provided that John was able to remain in training long enough to become a consultant surgeon himself, he would be promoted to major when that time came.

</p><p><i>I hope I’ll have the privilege of working under him when that time comes,</i> Bill thought.  <i>Of course, he’s got to survive this first!  And recover.</i>

</p><p>During the three years since John had first been deployed to Afghanistan, Bill recollected, he had taken lots of opportunities to ask the women at the bases where he’d been stationed out on dates, just as he had done at King’s College and during his year as a senior house officer, and he was just as gentlemanly towards them now as he had been then.  Bill smiled at the memories.

</p><p><i>It’s true, I enjoyed teasing him about being a ladies’ man—still do, in fact.  But he’s never taken advantage of any woman he’s dated.  If he ever finds a woman he wants to spend the rest of his life with, I’m sure he’ll be a good husband.</i>

</p><p>Several hours passed as Murray waited for Major Sholto to arrive.  The air conditioner switched on and off during that time; when it was on, it hummed in the background and cooled off the waiting room.  People came and went, came and went—doctors, nurses, and soldiers.  All the while, Bill couldn’t stop thinking about Captain Watson and silently praying that the good doctor would survive and recover from his injuries.  Eventually, exhaustion took over, and he curled up in his armchair and nodded off.

</p><p>TUESDAY, JULY 28, 2009: CAMP BASTION, HELMAND PROVINCE

</p><p>1:15 a.m.

</p><p>“Murray!  Sergeant Murray!”  The familiar voice’s tone of command jolted him awake.  Shaking his head violently, Bill jerked up, shoved his feet back on the floor, and stared up at the major leaning over him—covered in dust and still wearing his body armour, Bill noticed.  Apparently, Major Sholto had not attempted to take the time to remove his armour or clean up before leaving for Camp Bastion.  Leaping to his feet, Bill came to attention and saluted.

</p><p>“Major Sholto!  Sir!”

</p><p>Sholto saluted back.  “At ease, sergeant.”  Murray relaxed into parade rest.  “Where is Dr. Watson?”

</p><p>Bill glanced toward the door leading to the hallway.  “Last I saw, he was in recovery.  Dr. Roland’s his orthopaedic surgeon, sir.”  He swallowed.  “I regret to say that some of the men who split from your patrol to join the other one were hurt in that same skirmish.  They’re all here, too.  Some of them were wounded quite seriously.  One of them has already lost a leg, Corporal Ryan.  The one Captain Watson and I were treating when he was shot.”

</p><p>“I know.”  Major Sholto nodded, his face grim.  “I’ve been on the phone with the hospital while I was on my way here.”  He frowned at the uniform Murray was wearing.  “Where is your uniform, sergeant?”

</p><p>“Being washed.”  Bill grimaced.  “My trouser legs were soaked with blood, and my shirt was spattered with it, so one of the nurses volunteered to wash my uniform for me.  She gave me a clean pair to wear until I get mine back.”

</p><p>The major nodded.  “That’s good.”

</p><p>Dr. Roland hurried into the waiting room.  “Major Sholto,” he greeted.

</p><p>“Major Roland.”  The major nodded in greeting.  “I want a report,” he ordered.

</p><p>“Certainly.”  Looking from Major Sholto to Staff Sergeant Murray, Dr. Roland said, “Captain Watson is out of recovery now, and in intensive care.  Because of the painkillers and sedatives he’s on, he’s still unconscious, though, and he’s still on a ventilator.  And a chest tube.”  He gazed intently into Sholto’s eyes.  “Do you wish to see him now?”  He looked from Major Sholto to Sergeant Murray.

</p><p>Major Sholto fidgeted.  “I do want to see him, yes.”  Bill nodded agreement.  “First, though—”  The major glanced down at his watch.  “Since there are some men under my command here that I’m told were injured in that skirmish—who split off from my patrol to join the one that was ambushed—I wish to see them first.  But before I do, I want you to fill me in on their conditions.”

</p><p>“Which ones?”

</p><p>“Private Levine, for one.  Corporal Ryan, for another.”  After naming the other wounded Fusiliers he wanted to visit before going to see John, he said, “After I have seen them, I want to see Captain Watson.”  Dr. Roland nodded.

</p><p>“I do, too,” Bill added.  Looking from one major to the other, he added, “With your permissions, sirs.”

</p><p>Sholto nodded.  “You may, if Dr. Roland agrees.”

</p><p>Dr. Roland nodded in turn.  “I see no objection, Murray, now that Captain Watson is out of recovery.  Corporal Ryan is also in ICU, but his cot is closest to the entrance, and Dr. Watson’s cot is on the other end.  I'll fill you in, and then I’ll take you to see them both after you’ve visited the others.”

</p><p>He described the soldiers’ injuries, including Corporal Ryan’s, and the condition they were currently in.  Afterward, he led the way down the hall toward the hospital rooms, his shoes clicking on the linoleum floor.  For the next several minutes, in a few of the hospital wards, Sholto and Murray visited the Fusiliers who had been badly injured in that skirmish, one by one; the last one they saw was Corporal Ryan, whose leg had been amputated that afternoon while John’s shoulder had been reconstructed, and who was also in ICU.  He had woken up since Murray had seen him earlier.  While Sholto and Murray visited the corporal, they commiserated with him.

</p><p>“I will be discharged, sir?” Ryan asked, at one point.

</p><p>Sholto hesitated.  “That’s not up to me to decide, corporal,” he told the injured soldier.  “That’s up to the Medical Board.  Depending on their recommendation and the decision of the Army Personnel Centre, you might be assigned to some amended duties, you might be assigned a job that will keep you out of the battle zones, or you might be discharged altogether.  Whichever way they decide, that is their judgment to make, not mine.”

</p><p>Ryan nodded, grimacing.  “Dr. Watson and Nurse Murray saved my life.”  He nodded toward Bill as he spoke, and then toward the other end of the ward, where John lay in his cot.  Major Sholto nodded.

</p><p>A few minutes later, Sholto and Murray said good-bye to him and went to the other end of the ICU ward to see John; as soon as they drew near his cot, the major halted and froze, gaping down at the unconscious trainee surgeon.  “No,” he whispered, looking totally stricken, and swore under his breath.

</p><p>Murray bit his lower lip.  He and the others had never seen Major Sholto exhibiting any kind of emotion before.  He was the consummate soldier; as such, he always kept his feelings tightly under control.  To see him losing control like this, now, was unnerving.  Bill could understand, though.  He felt the same way, and he knew that Major Sholto was fond of John, who in turn looked up to his commanding officer, whom he respected, trusted, and liked.

</p><p>Murray stepped up next to him.  “I know, sir,” he said, his voice sounding choked.  He swallowed hard.  “This is how he looked when he first arrived here, and when he came out of surgery.”

</p><p>Choking back a sob, he approached John’s cot and squeezed his right hand.  “It’s better that he’s not awake just now, major.  That ventilator is most uncomfortable.  As long as he’s under, he can’t feel it.”  He looked back at the stricken major.

</p><p>Sholto nodded, swallowing hard.  “I know,” he said hoarsely.  Approaching the cot, he gently touched John’s right arm.  “This is an order, Captain Watson,” he said softly, but with an air of command in his voice.  “You get well!  You hear me?  Don’t you even think about dying!”  The critically wounded doctor did not respond in any way, but remained unmoving, his dirty, sweaty, tear-streaked face pale and blank.

</p><p>With a sigh, Sholto turned around and then looked at Murray.  “Well, sergeant, we had better return to base and fill Dr. Clancy in.  Bastion will keep us posted on his progress, and that of the others.”

</p><p>Murray looked down at John and then up at the major.  Intense misery welled up in his gut.  He sighed.  “Yes, sir.”

</p><p>As he followed the major out of the hospital room and down the hall towards the waiting room, the nurse joined them, where she handed Bill his now-clean uniform, which was neatly folded.  Giving her a smile of thanks, he went to a nearby empty room to change back into it; upon stepping back out into the hall, he gave her back the other uniform and thanked her for cleaning his.

</p><p>He and Major Sholto then strode into the waiting room and out the front door.  As they stepped outside, he saw that the helicopter which had brought Major Sholto was still waiting not far from the entrance.  Within minutes, they were in the air and on their way back to FOB Hamidullah.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><span class="u">A/N</span>: <b>(3)</b> Dr. Roland’s comment about the fixation plate is a nod to Fang’s Fawn’s great story, “Simple Procedure.”  It is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10186602/1/Simple-Procedure">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1313185">Archive of Our Own</a>.  I have made the same nod to her story in one of my earlier stories, “Background Check”.  Like hers, mine can be found on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11718191/1/Background-Check">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/5658772/chapters/13033933">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p>And part of the description of John’s shoulder wound in this chapter was borrowed from BlueSkye12’s great stories, which are also posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4420770/BlueSkye12">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12/works?fandom_id=133185">Archive of Our Own</a>.  The other part of the description, I borrowed from thebakerstreetgirl’s equally great story, “The Bravery of the Soldier;” like the others, you will find it posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9818692/1/The-Bravery-of-the-Soldier">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2044784">Archive of Our Own</a>.  Major Sholto’s arrival at the field hospital and his reaction to John’s injuries, I borrowed from BlueSkye12’s story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402291">“Twelve Minutes.”</a></p><p>In addition, I got the idea of John being in the Army Reserves while he was training to become a doctor from 221b_hound's story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390756/chapters/5282345">"Save My Soul."</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Departure</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The time comes for John, who is still unconscious and developing the beginning symptoms of infection, to be transferred to a hospital on British soil.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>TUESDAY, JULY 28, 2009: FOB HAMIDULLAH, HELMAND PROVINCE

</p><p>13:30 p.m. (1:30 p.m.)

</p><p>Murray returned to the nurses’ barracks and plopped down on the edge of his bunk bed, exhausted.  He had just finished assisting Dr. Clancy in operating on a badly wounded soldier, who was currently resting in one of the hospital cots.  The doctor had ordered him to return to the barracks and rest until called for; the other nurses were on duty at the moment, tending the patients.

</p><p><i>Just as well,</i> he thought dully.  <i>I can’t stop thinking about John, and I can’t give our patients the best care when he’s all I can think about.  How is he now?  Is he still on that ventilator, or have they been able to take him off of it yet?  How long will it be until Captain Watson’s stable enough to transport?  I know he’ll have to be returned to the U.K. for further treatment.  Probably Selly Oak.</i>

</p><p>With a sigh, he positioned his legs on his cot and lay down on his back; resting his head on the soft pillow, he closed his eyes.  Hopefully, the doctors at Camp Bastion would be in touch with them very soon, to bring them up to date.  Within minutes, the weary nurse drifted off.

</p><p>WEDNESDAY, JULY 29, 2009: CAMP BASTION, HELMAND PROVINCE

</p><p>8.00 a.m.

</p><p>Dr. Roland gently pressed the cold stethoscope disk against the unconscious Dr. Watson’s chest, careful to avoid the chest tube that was still inserted into his left lung.  To his relief, the injured doctor’s heartbeat remained steady.  He then very carefully pressed it against both lungs, while still being very careful to avoid the chest tube, and while pushing the sling out of the stethoscope’s way.

</p><p>“Well, there’s <i>some</i> good news,” he said at last, raising his head and tilting it.  “There’s no sign of pneumonia, and with any luck, there won’t be.”  The nurse nodded.  That was indeed good news.  “However, he’s not yet stable enough to transport.  Let’s hope he will be within the next two days.”

</p><p>The nurse nodded again.  “Yes, doctor.”

</p><p>“The sooner, the better.”  Dr. Roland grimaced.  “Even if Dr. Watson manages to escape pneumonia, that doesn’t mean he won’t escape sepsis, osteomyelitis, infective endocarditis, or any of the other complications that could arise from the germs that managed to make their way into his body when he was shot.  As good as the field hospital here is, we’re not adequately equipped to deal with those complications.  The sooner we can get him off to Selly Oak, the better.”

</p><p>The nurse sighed.  “I can only agree.”  She smiled wryly.  “At least we don’t have to worry about typhoid fever, as wounded soldiers had to back in the 1800s.” <b>(4)</b>

</p><p>“Or dysentery or cholera or any of those communicable diseases.  Thank Heaven for small favours,” Dr. Roland agreed.  “We have better knowledge of what causes diseases than they had back then, along with better health care and better sanitary conditions.  The chances of Dr. Watson or any injured soldier coming down with any of the contagious diseases that were so common back in those days is quite small, nowadays.  That doesn’t mean Dr. Watson won’t face the danger of other diseases resulting from his injury, though.”  He glanced down at his watch.  “We’ll wait until we know more before we contact Dr. Clancy again.  At the moment, we don’t really know any more than what we’ve already told him.”  The nurse nodded, and the two of them left John’s cot to examine the other patients.

</p><p>As the day progressed, and the morning turned into afternoon, there remained no change in John’s condition; he remained drugged unconscious and on the ventilator.  Because the staff was so busy tending other critically wounded soldiers and monitoring John’s vitals, no one had time to even wipe the sweat, dirt, and tears off his face, let alone wash his hair or give him a sponge bath.  That evening, Dr. Roland rang Dr. Clancy at FOB Hamidullah to bring him up to date.

</p><p>On his way to the mess hall, the consultant orthopaedic surgeon stopped on his way to look in on John.  The wounded doctor lay just as still as he had ever since he’d been brought in the day before, with his face just as blank and pale.  The ventilator did his breathing for him.  Dr. Roland checked on his IV and the chest tube, took his pulse and blood pressure, and watched the heart monitor; his skin was cool, and for the moment, there was no fever.  Satisfied, the orthopaedic surgeon left to go to the mess hall to get something to eat.

</p><p>20:15 p.m. (5:15 p.m.)

</p><p>“I don’t like the looks of this.”  Dr. Roland frowned.  He laid his hand on Dr. Watson’s now-warm forehead again.  “Nurse.”  He held out his hand, and the nurse brought him the ear thermometer; he stuck it just inside John’s ear canal.  Seconds later, the ear thermometer beeped, and Dr. Roland looked at the reading.  “Just as I thought.  His temperature’s risen one degree.  A fever’s setting in.”

</p><p>“His temperature was normal, this morning,” the nurse said, and Dr. Roland nodded agreement.  “What do you think it could be, doctor?”  She sounded worried.

</p><p>“I don’t know, but I fear sepsis.”  Dr. Roland handed her the thermometer and folded his arms.  “At any rate, I do know we can’t wait any longer to transport him to Selly Oak.  Fortunately, in spite of the developing fever, he’s stabilised enough now for travel.  His fever is nowhere near the dangerous range, and we’d better get him to Selly Oak before it rises that high, and the other critically injured soldiers, too.  I’d better order a couple of transport planes, stat.”  The nurse nodded.

</p><p>Stepping out into the hall, Dr. Roland took his mobile phone out of his lab coat pocket and ordered a couple of large transport planes, which were fitted out as airborne ambulances that flew seriously injured soldiers to hospitals in Germany and the U.K., to be prepared immediately to transport some critically injured patients to Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham.  He then rang Selly Oak to notify the hospital that Camp Bastion was sending to the hospital some military patients, after which he and the nurse immediately began to prepare John and the other soldiers for air transport.  From what Dr. Roland had been told over the phone when he had ordered the transport planes prepared, it would be a few hours before they were ready for transport, but he fully intended to have John, Corporal Ryan, and the other critically wounded soldiers ready by then, and for Selly Oak to be ready to receive them when they arrived there.  The soldiers injured in the skirmish whose injuries were less serious would remain at Camp Bastion for treatment.

</p><p>22:30 p.m. (10:30 p.m.)

</p><p>The ambulances were waiting in front of the entrance as a couple of RAF medics pushed the trolley carrying Dr. John Watson towards one of them, with Dr. Roland striding next to his head.  The ambulances would take the injured soldiers to Camp Bastion’s airfield, where the transport planes were waiting.  Carefully, the medics folded the trolley’s metal legs, lifted it up, and manoeuvred it into the ambulance.  John never so much as stirred or made a sound.  The ventilator continued to hiss and push as it breathed for him, the chest tube was still in his left lung, and an IV now filled with antibiotics, painkiller, and sedative hung from the attached pole.  Other medics manoeuvred the trolleys on which Corporal Ryan and the other seriously injured soldiers all lay into both ambulances.

</p><p>One of the medics climbed aboard each ambulance, and Dr. Roland stepped back.  A moment later, the two ambulances drove off.  Dr. Roland stood there watching until they were out of sight.  Then, slowly, with a sigh, he re-entered the field hospital.  Captain Watson was out of his hands now, and at least he would be in good hands at Selly Oak.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(4)</b> A nod to the reason that ACD canon Dr. John Watson was discharged from the army: while he was in the process of recovering from surgery on his shattered shoulder, he came down with typhoid fever (called enteric fever in <i>A Study in Scarlet</i>), and he thus spent an extended period of time fighting for his life.  When he had finally begun the process of recovering from that disease, at which point he was quite weak and emaciated, a medical board decided to give him a medical discharge from the army and return him to England.  Thanks to modern-day medicine, sanitary conditions, and knowledge of cleanliness, the chances of any soldier or army doctor coming down with typhoid fever or any of the other contagious diseases that used to ravage armies is quite small, anymore.</p><p>I highly recommend that those of you who haven’t read A <i>Study in Scarlet</i> get a copy of that book and read it (or read the <a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/files/244/244-h/244-h.htm">online version</a> available on the Internet).  And while you’re at it, pull up Pompey’s great pre-Sherlock fanfiction story covering Dr. Watson’s shooting at the Battle of Maiwand and his subsequent complications and discharge, “On Afghanistan’s Plains”; you will find it on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/4029558/1/On-Afghanistan-s-Plains">Fanfiction.net</a>.  In fact, I highly recommend that you read “On Afghanistan’s Plains” first, and <i>then</i> read <i>A Study in Scarlet</i>!  Pompey’s story is just <i>that</i> good. =)</p><p>BTW, I’ve been informed that Chinook helicopters could only fly 400 miles; to get the injured soldiers all the way from Camp Bastion to Selly Oak, large transport planes outfitted as ambulances would be needed.  I’ve also been informed that Camp Bastion had its own airfield.  Therefore, I’ve changed the mode of transport from Chinooks to transport planes.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Arrival</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John and the other seriously injured soldiers arrive at Selly Oak Hospital, and John's new doctor tries to explain things to his drunken sister and to Clara.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THURSDAY, JULY 30, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL, BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

</p><p>2:30 a.m.

</p><p>“Get them to ICU!”  Dr. Alan McLemore, the chief consultant orthopaedic surgeon in charge of the military patients, ordered curtly; he nodded toward Corporal Ryan as he spoke, to indicate that he needed to be in intensive care, too.  He darted alongside Captain Watson’s trolley as the medics rushed it down the hall, their shoes clicking on the floor as they rushed him to ICU.  A few other doctors were accompanying some of the other soldiers.  Minutes before, John and the other critically injured Fusiliers, as well as the soldiers from the other unit who’d also been critically injured in that skirmish, had been removed from the transport planes and loaded onto a few ambulances, which had brought them to Selly Oak; now John and the other soldiers had been rushed through the doors of the A&amp;E department and were being transported down the hall.

</p><p>The unconscious army doctor lay immobile on his back, with his left arm in a sling and bandaged to his chest, the chest tube in his left lung, the ventilator hose stuck into his mouth, and the IV needle in his right wrist.  The hose to which the needle was attached was taped to his wrist, and a bag of antibiotics, painkiller, and sedative hung from the IV pole attached to the trolley.

</p><p>The medics moved the trolleys into the ICU ward, where they carefully lifted each soldier off the trolley that he was on and laid him on a hospital cot, including John.  He was laid on a cot along the right wall, two beds down from the ICU entrance, and Corporal Ryan was laid on another at the other end of the ward, along the same wall.  While other medics tended the other Fusiliers who had just arrived, a couple of them spent the next several minutes getting the injured trainee surgeon situated as the orthopaedic surgeon supervised them and the orderlies tending Corporal Ryan, with both hands in his lab coat pockets as he watched.  He stood with his back straight and his shoulders squared as he watched the orderlies tending John, then the one tending Corporal Ryan.  Meanwhile, his colleagues supervised the orderlies who were tending the other newly arrived soldiers.

</p><p>Harry and Clara, who had been notified first of John’s injury, and then that he was on his way to Selly Oak, stood against the light green wall, staring wide-eyed at Harry’s younger brother.  She had been drinking heavily when Major Sholto had rung her to bring her up to date about John’s transfer to Selly Oak, so she leaned against the wall, and Clara stood straight.  Since Harry had been in no shape to drive any distance, let alone from London to Birmingham, Clara had taken the wheel to come here.  They had already decided to stay at a local hotel for the time being, so they wouldn’t have to keep driving back and forth from London.

</p><p>One of the medics who was tending John switched on the heart monitor fastened to the wall above his head and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his upper right arm, and the other placed the plastic bag containing the medicine on the IV pole.  Once everything was complete, and all of the new arrivals were situated, the medics left, but the doctors and nurses stayed put.  Striding towards John’s cot and bending over, Dr. McLemore took John’s pulse and then placed his stethoscope on John’s chest, first over his heart and then over his lungs, pushing his arm sling out of the way as he did so.  One of the night-time nurses felt John’s forehead and took his temperature.

</p><p>“38 degrees, <b>(5)</b> and his forehead is warm,” she announced.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “I want a nurse by his side at all times,” he ordered gruffly, the tone of command in his voice.  Another of the nurses nodded and moved a hardback wooden chair next to John’s chair.

</p><p>Before sitting down, she took a disinfecting wipe and wiped John’s dirty, sweaty, tear-streaked face clean.  When she had finished, she sat down beside John’s cot.  Meanwhile, the other nurse left.  Turning to Dr. McLemore, the one who was sitting next to John said, “He’s in sore need of a sponge bag and a hair wash, doctor.”

</p><p>“Yes, I know, and a shave, too.  And so do the other soldiers who’ve just arrived.”  Dr. McLemore nodded agreement.  “I will send some orderlies here to shave them and clean them up after I’ve spoken with Captain Watson’s sister.  First, though, I need to have a look at Corporal Ryan.”  He looked towards Harry and Clara.  “But before I do that…”

</p><p>He approached the two women standing against the wall and shifted into parade rest.  “Which of you is Dr. Watson’s sister?”

</p><p>Harry shook her head violently and peered up at him, her eyes bloodshot.  “She is,” Clara told him, nodding towards her.  “Only she’s drunk.  Her name is Harriet Watson—Harry, for short.”  Folding her arms across her chest, she glared at Harry.

</p><p>“Stupid little brudda ne’er should’ve joined stupid bloody army,” Harry muttered, scowling, her voice slurred and belligerent.  “He ne’er cared about me.  He left me to go to war.  Ne’er shoulda done that.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore gave her an amused smile.  “Well, he did, Miss Watson, so we must deal with the situation as it is, not as you would have liked it to be.  Wait just a moment while I have a look at one of the other soldiers who was just brought in, then we’ll talk.”

</p><p>He strode toward the other end of the ICU ward and spent the next few minutes examining Corporal Ryan, especially his stump.  Ryan, who was awake, whispered hoarsely, “My—my bloody—stump hurts, doctor.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore patted his shoulder.  “I know it does.  I’ll order you some medication to ease the pain, corporal.”

</p><p>Corporal Ryan nodded his thanks.  “How—how’s Captain Watson?”  He looked at the unconscious army doctor.  “H—he saved my life when I was hurt.  He and his nurse.  Saved me from—bleeding to death.  Bloody insurgent—shot him—while he was tending me.”  He swallowed.  “I would hate for him to die now!  Especially after—saving me—from death.”

</p><p>“That makes both of us, corporal, and I intend to make every effort to ensure he does not.”  A nurse approached and injected some morphine into the corporal’s IV.  Dr. McLemore touched his arm.  “Rest now, corporal.”  Nodding, Corporal Ryan closed his eyes.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore returned to Harry and Clara.  “Come with me to my office, please; there are some questions I need to ask you, and some things I must tell you.”

</p><p>As Harry and Clara accompanied him down the hall, Harry stumbled more than once, and Clara took her arm to keep her upright.  When they entered his office, Dr. McLemore gestured toward the two chairs facing his desk.  “Have a seat.”

</p><p>Clara perched on one of the cushioned chairs and leaned forward; with difficulty, Harry managed to plop into the other and leaned back in the chair, her back resting against its soft backrest.  Dr. McLemore drew back his own cushioned chair and sat down, rolling his chair underneath the desk.  He leaned forward, folding his right leg over the left and clasping his hands on the desk.

</p><p>“There isn’t really much I can really tell you at the moment that Dr. Roland hasn’t already told you,” he said.  “We’ll know more as this coming day progresses.  Your brother should regain consciousness before this new day is out.  I can tell you this right now, though: he’s running a fever, and things, I’m afraid, are going to be quite rough for the foreseeable future.”

</p><p>Harry scowled and shook her head.  “Pull the plug.”  Her voice slurred.

</p><p>“Pardon me?”  Dr. McLemore stared at her.

</p><p>“Just—pull the—bloody—plug,” Harry said.

</p><p>“Harry!” scolded Clara.

</p><p>“He—he’s not gonna—make it.”  Harry shook her head.  “Just—let him—go.”

</p><p>The doctor shook his head and rubbed his nose.  “It’s too soon to be planning anything like that, Miss Watson,” he said.  “I’ve been in touch with the field hospital at Camp Bastion, and they’ve sent me a copy of Dr. Watson’s will along with copies of his medical records.  There’s a certain clause in his will describing certain conditions that <i>must</i> be met, before we can decide to do that.  There are certain numbers, certain levels and measurements, that his body must reach <i>and</i> stay at for at least 48 hours.  Only if they have remained so for that length of time may we pull the plug.”  Clasping his hands together on his desk, he looked at her compassionately.  “At the moment, those numbers are nowhere near the level your brother specified.  And right now, in spite of the condition he’s in—and he <i>is</i> in serious condition, I regret to say—he’s doing well, considering.  So, let’s give him time to wake up on his own, all right?” <b>(6)</b>

</p><p>Harry glared at him, and he could see that she was about to start ranting.  Before she could get going, though, Clara rose to her feet, grabbed Harry’s arm, and pulled her into a standing position.  “Come on, Harry, let’s go.  We’ll come back and see John tomorrow.  Hopefully, you’ll be sober by then!”  Giving the doctor an apologetic look, she firmly propelled Harry out the office door.

</p><p>Leaning back in his chair, Dr. McLemore shook his head.  His questions would have to wait until Harry was sober.  He leaned back in his office chair, thinking hard and tapping the surface of his desk with his index finger, and then left his office to send some orderlies to bathe and shave Captain Watson and the other newly arrived soldiers, and to wash their hair.

</p><p>Minutes later, on Dr. McLemore’s orders, several orderlies came into the ICU ward to give the newly arrived soldiers sponge baths, wash their hair, and shave their faces.  When they had finished, John’s hair and his body, and the hair and bodies of the other new arrivals, were clean once more, and their faces had been freshly shaven.  For the rest of the night, the night nurse stayed by John’s side, monitoring his condition.  Shortly after dawn, another nurse, Alice Jenkins, took her place at his side; to her concern, upon reading his chart, she discovered that his temperature had risen another degree since he had been brought in several hours before.  His face had become flushed, and when she laid her hand on his forehead, it felt quite warm.  When Dr. McLemore strode into the ward to examine him, his face was grave.  He bent over to examine John.

</p><p>“Well, the good news is, we can take him off the ventilator in a few hours, and lower his sedation for now.  He should be waking up soon,” he said, straightening his back, squaring his shoulders, and folding his arms across his chest.  “The bad news is, it may be necessary to put him back on the ventilator and sedate him again later.  I very much fear that sepsis is setting in.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins nodded.  “Yes, doctor.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore strode toward the other end of the ward to have a look at Corporal Ryan.  After taking his vital signs, he straightened his back.  “Well, I’ve got one piece of good news for you, corporal: you’re running no fever.”  He smiled down at the injured corporal.  “If no complications set in, you’ll be moved to a regular ward very soon.  There, you’ll start rehab.”

</p><p>Corporal Ryan smiled at the good news, and then frowned as he looked at the still-unconscious doctor.  “I overheard what you said when you were examining Captain Watson.  I wish his news was as good.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore glanced back at John and sighed.  “We both do.”

</p><p>Suddenly, Corporal Ryan stiffened and cried out in pain.  “I thought Dr. Roland cut off that bloody leg!  Why is my calf still hurting when it’s no longer there?”

</p><p>“Phantom pains.”  Dr. McLemore gave him a sympathetic smile.  “I’m afraid you’re going to be enduring them for a while, corporal, possibly quite a while.  Your brain hasn’t yet got the message that part of your leg is gone, and it’s still sending messages to a part of a limb that’s no longer there.  It probably won’t always appear as actual pain, though; at times, it may appear as numbness, or itching, or simply feel that it’s lying there on your cot as your other leg does.  The good news is, your brain <i>will</i> eventually get that message, and then the phantom pains will stop.”  He nodded toward a nurse who was standing close by with a hypothermic syringe.  “Meanwhile, I’ll have Nurse Adams, here, give you a shot of morphine to ease the pain.”

</p><p>With a nod, the nurse injected the morphine into Corporal Ryan’s IV, and the phantom pain soon subsided.  Patting his shoulder, the orthopaedic surgeon left the ICU ward, and Corporal Ryan drifted off.

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>A few hours later, the ventilator hose was removed from John’s mouth, and the sedative drip was scaled back.  John remained unmoving, but he was able to breathe on his own once more, and as the minutes passed, his face began to twitch, and he started making tiny movements.

</p><p>Finally, moans began to penetrate John’s consciousness, followed by the hazy awareness that he was doing the moaning, and that he was lying flat on a cot, his head resting on a soft pillow.  He was in much pain.  His shoulder throbbed non-stop, making him wince, and an unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation spread down his left arm into his fingers.  The left side of his chest also hurt.  The rhythmic beats of a heart monitor came to his awareness next, following by the realization that a blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his upper right arm.

</p><p><i>I’m alive!  I didn’t die!</i>  He winced.  <i>My shoulder sure hurts!  And my chest hurts, too!  And my left arm feels funny!  My hand, too.</i>

</p><p>Blinking, he slowly opened his eyes.  A cream-coloured ceiling loomed above his head.  Glancing down at his chest, he noticed that a thick white bandage had been wrapped around his shoulder, and that his left arm had been placed in a sling and completely bandaged to his chest.  He would not be able to use it for a while.  And there was a tube in his chest, inserted into his left lung.  That explained the pain in his chest.

</p><p>Slowly and with much effort, John turned his head to see where he was.  He was in an intensive care ward, he noticed.  Several hospital cots lined the side of the wall his cot was on, and several more lined the other side.  Soldiers lay in all, and several were asleep, including the two in the cots that sandwiched his on his side of the ward.  However, to his consternation, some of the soldiers were moaning in pain.  All of them were hooked to heart monitors, and IVs had been inserted into their wrists.  A number of them had catheters inserted into other parts of their bodies, and one of them was on a ventilator.

</p><p><i>A hospital,</i> he thought dully.  <i>But not the one at Bastion.  Where am I?  Selly Oak?  Am I back in England now?</i>

</p><p>A nurse stepped through the doorway and approached his cot.  “You’re awake.”  She smiled and brushed her hair out of her face.  John nodded and, despite the intense pain in his shoulder, managed to give her a wan smile back.

</p><p>“What—what hospital?”  His voice sounded weak and hoarse, and he couldn’t stop wincing for pain.

</p><p>“You’re at Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham, Captain Watson.  You’re back in England.”  John nodded.  He had suspected as much.  “You and several other Fusiliers were flown on transport planes to Birmingham from Camp Bastion last night, and brought here by ambulance during the night.  Today’s the 30th.”

</p><p>“We’re—we’re in ICU, aren’t I?” he asked; despite the phrasing of the sentence, it was not really a question.  He already knew, and the nurse nodded.  John nodded toward the moaning soldiers, pressing his lips together in a thin line.  “Could—could you give them some relief?  They’re in—in pain.”  <i>And so am I,</i> he thought, working to suppress his own moans.

</p><p>Before the nurse could say anything, and to his relief, some other nurses entered the ward right then and approached the moaning soldiers.  As he watched, the nurses injected some painkillers into their IVs.  Soon, the moans stopped, and those soldiers relaxed.  John smiled in relief, despite the intense pain he was still in.

</p><p>“I’m Nurse Alice Jenkins.  I’ll be spending quite a bit of time with you for a while,” the nurse told him, patting his hand.  “Don’t worry about the other soldiers, doctor; they’re in good hands, and so are you.  I’ve been assigned to stay by your side when I’m on duty.  I had just stepped out for a few minutes when you woke up.”

</p><p>She frowned as he winced in agony.  “The other soldiers you were concerned about weren’t the only ones in pain; you are, too.  I’ll put some painkiller in your IV now.”

</p><p>“Thank you.  Wh—what time is it?”  John glanced at Nurse Jenkin’s watch.

</p><p>She glanced down at it.  “It’s 1:15.”  John nodded.

</p><p>Filling half of a hypodermic syringe with morphine, she injected it into his IV.  In a few minutes, the intense throbbing in his shoulder and the pain in his chest both eased, and he grew sleepy.  He smiled his thanks at Nurse Jenkins, who patted his arm.  “What—what about Corporal Ryan?” he whispered.  “Is he here?  My nurse and I were treating him when I was shot in that skirmish.  Is he alive?  Is he all right?  And come to that, are the other Fusiliers all right?”

</p><p>“Yes, to your first two questions, and unless complications set in, they will all be all right, including Corporal Ryan.  Ryan, in particular, will have to undergo rehab, though, since he’s missing a leg.”  John winced.  He had known that the corporal’s leg would probably have to be amputated, but it was still a shock to learn that it had been.  One of Bastion’s other orthopaedic surgeons had doubtless cut it off.  Nurse Jenkins sat back down.  “Don’t worry about Corporal Ryan, doctor.  He’s in good hands, and so are you.  You just rest now.”

</p><p>John nodded.  A few minutes later, his eyes slid shut, and he drifted off.  As he fell asleep, his last thoughts were, <i>How long will it be till I’m well enough to go back to FOB Hamidullah?  Not long, I hope!  Once my shoulder and lung are on the mend, and I’m well enough to leave ICU, it should only be a matter of time till I’m well enough to go back.  Dr. Clancy needs me.  They all do.</i></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: <b>(5)</b> For those of us who are unfamiliar with Centigrade (or Celsius, as it is also called), 38 degrees is the Centigrade/Celsius version of 100.4 degrees Fahrenheit. (Isn’t Google wonderful? =))</p><p><b>(6)</b> In <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2130406">Chapter 16</a> of bakerstreetgirl’s great story, “The Bravery of the Soldier,” John speaks of a drunken Harry having sought to have the plug pulled on her injured brother when he was transferred to a hospital in England following his shooting.  I highly recommend that everyone who hasn’t yet done so read her story!  It’s posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9818692/1/The-Bravery-of-the-Soldier">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2044784">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Sepsis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John comes down with a serious infection.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THURSDAY, JULY 30, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL, BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

</p><p>5:00 p.m.

</p><p>John opened his eyes and looked at the cream-coloured ceiling again.  The floaty feeling that he associated with morphine was still in him, and for the moment at least, there was no pain in his shoulder or lung.  He felt sicker than he had when he’d woken up earlier, as well as hot, and the pins-and-needles sensation that he had felt in his left arm and hand earlier was still there.  <i>I sure hope it’s because my arm is strapped to my chest!</i>  The hospital cot he lay in felt comfortable in spite of its narrow width.  The heart monitor’s rhythmic beeping indicated that his heart was working all right.  To his left, Nurse Jenkins sat next to him, rubbing her fingertips together; she smiled at him as he looked at her.  The overhead light bulbs flooded the entire ICU ward with light.

</p><p>“Hey, doc!”  Turning his head to the right, John saw that the soldier lying in the cot to the right of his was awake now.  Grinning, the soldier said in a weak voice, “Welcome to <i>Smelly</i> Oak!”

</p><p>Chuckling, John rolled his eyes.  He had heard of that nickname that some of the locals had given that area.  “Captain John Watson, MBBS, combat surgeon in training under Dr. Robert Clancy, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers,” he introduced himself, his own voice still quite weak and hoarse.

</p><p>“Corporal Joseph Kinslow, infantry soldier, 2 Rifles Battalion,” the soldier said, raising his right hand in greeting.  “I’ve been here for over a week now, sent here from Bastion after surgery.  A bloody mortar exploded not far from where I was on patrol.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Several other Fusiliers and I were just brought in from Camp Bastion during the early morning, last night.  I was shot by an insurgent on a retrieval mission to a skirmish on Monday afternoon, and the other Fusiliers were injured in that same skirmish.”

</p><p>A grey-haired middle-aged doctor wearing a lab coat entered the ward and strode toward John’s cot.  “Hello, Captain Watson.  I’m Dr. Alan McLemore, chief orthopaedic surgeon in charge of military patients,” he introduced himself, inserting his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “You and one of the other Fusiliers will be under my care while you’re here.”  He stood at parade rest and smiled down at John.

</p><p>Nodding, John raised his right hand in greeting, since his left hand was out of commission.  “Pleased to meet you.  I’d shake your hand if I could.  Just wish we could have met under better circumstances.”

</p><p>“You and me both.  Guess you know you were shot in the shoulder.”  Making a face, John nodded.  “And your left lung was punctured by the bullet; that’s why you’ve got the chest tube.  And for that matter, so was your subclavian artery.  Dr. Roland and his team at Camp Bastion did an excellent job of saving your life, Captain Watson.”  Grasping John’s right wrist, the doctor took his pulse, felt his forehead, and then used his stethoscope to check his heartbeat.  The disk felt cold on John’s chest.  The orthopaedic surgeon then used the ear thermometer lying nearby to check John’s temperature.  Removing his pen from his lab coat pocket, he then made some notes on John’s chart.

</p><p>“You’re running a fever, Dr. Watson,” he said, when he had finished.  “You were already somewhat feverish when you were brought here, and I’m afraid your temperature has risen since then.”

</p><p>“I noticed.  I’m feeling pretty sick, sicker than I felt when I woke up earlier.  And hot.”  John grimaced.  “Sepsis?”

</p><p>“Possibly.  If it is, we will do everything we can to defeat it.”

</p><p>John smiled wryly.  “Sounds good to me.  I’m anxious to get back to my unit.  I’m needed there.”  He nodded towards his shoulder.  “And my shoulder?”

</p><p>“Right now, your shoulder contains some pins, a screw, and a fixation plate.”  Dr. McLemore folded his arms across his chest as he spoke.  “Your shoulder was destroyed by that bullet when it entered near your joint, Dr. Watson, so when you were transported to Bastion, they had to operate on it immediately, and repair it.  It underwent quite extensive repair work, I understand.  They also had to repair your subclavian artery while you were on the operating table, and before they could begin to operate, they had to give you CPR and administer to you several units of whole blood, since you were haemorrhaging and in severe shock.  It won’t be the only surgery you’ll have.  There’ll have to be some more repair work done on your shoulder in the near future here at Selly Oak, to finish reconstructing it and get its function as close to normal as we can manage.”

</p><p>John nodded.  He had expected as much.  “How much impairment can I expect to live with?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore shrugged.  “At the moment, it’s too soon to say.  I’ll have a better idea about that when your shoulder has undergone its final surgery.”

</p><p>With a nod, John grimaced.  He would have to wait and see.  “And what about pneumonia?”

</p><p>“So far, there are no signs of pneumonia, I’m glad to say.  I don’t think we’ll have to worry about pneumonia at this point.  That doesn’t mean, however, that there won’t be other complications we’ll have to watch out for.  Sepsis, for one—which, it appears, may already be starting.”

</p><p>John grimaced again.  He knew the complications Dr. McLemore was talking about, and about the very real danger of sepsis.  “Too true.”

</p><p>He looked up at the orthopaedic surgeon, noticing for the first time the way he stood straight-backed and squared his shoulders.  “You’re an army doctor, too,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “Used to be, yes; I was a major when I left the army.  Worked at the field hospital in Camp Bastion from the time it opened until I made the decision to retire from the army.  I was granted a discharge in 2005 and came here.”

</p><p>John nodded.  That would explain why he had never seen Dr. McLemore at Camp Bastion.  Clearing his throat, he said in his weak, hoarse voice, “I’m a licenced GP, but I really wanted to be a surgeon.  I was accepted into the RAMC’s surgical training program and deployed to Afghanistan in 2006 after I had finished training at Sandhurst, and I was immediately assigned to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers at Camp Bastion upon my arrival.  Ever since then, I’ve been training as a combat surgeon under Major Robert Clancy, consultant trauma surgeon; Major James Sholto’s my commanding officer.  Spent my first year in Afghanistan working in the field hospital at Camp Bastion, before we were seconded to a U.S. army base in Kandahar and then stationed at a Forward Operating Base in Helmand Province a year ago.  I was shot by a sniper while my nurse and I were on a retrieval mission last Monday, tending an injured soldier.  Several of Major Sholto’s men were hurt in that same skirmish.”

</p><p>“So I heard.  A Taliban insurgent, no doubt, using one of those armour-piercing bullets.”  Dr. McLemore grimaced and then inserted his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “I well remember Dr. Clancy.  He’s an excellent combat surgeon; it was a privilege to work alongside him while I was there.  I well remember Major Sholto, too.  A good man and an excellent officer.”  John nodded agreement, attempting to smile, and Dr. McLemore patted his right arm and gave him a comforting smile.

</p><p>“Well, get some rest, Captain Watson.  There’ll be a nurse here with you at all times.  Nurse Jenkins, here, is going to stay right here with you by day and another nurse by night, and when the pain returns, she’ll give you another dose of the morphine.”  John nodded, and the orthopaedic surgeon strode to the other end of the ward.  Before John could watch him to find out which other Fusilier was under his care, another nurse entered the ward and read John’s chart, and then looked at the heart monitor.  Smiling at John, she left.

</p><p>As the nurse made her exit, Harry and Clara entered the ward, where they made a beeline for John.  To his relief, Harry was sober.   “John Watson!” she scolded.  “You idiot!  Getting yourself shot like this!”

</p><p>John raised his right hand and let it drop back onto the mattress.  “Hey, you know me, Harry,” he whispered hoarsely.  “Someone’s in trouble, I’m not just going to stand by and do nothing.”

</p><p>“Well, you’re an idiot to just stand there and get yourself shot like that!  None of this would have happened if you hadn’t off and left me the way you did, joining the bloody army and going off to war, Johnny!”

</p><p>Clara rolled her eyes.  “Don’t mind her, John.  We’re <i>so</i> glad you’re awake!  Harry and I were so relieved when Dr. McLemore rang Harry and told her that you had woken up.”

</p><p>“Thanks, Clara.”  John smiled.  Nurse Jenkins gave them an amused smile and brushed her hair out of her face.

</p><p>Another nurse entered the ward and approached John’s cot.  “Hello, Captain Watson,” she said; giving her his trademark easy smile, John raised his right hand in greeting.  Moving to the other side of his cot, the nurse looked at the heart monitor, took his temperature and his pulse, and then wrote down his vital signs on his chart.  Patting his leg, she left the room.

</p><p>“It looks as if I’m gonna be pretty popular with the ladies here for a while,” John joked in a hoarse whisper.  “Though what they’d want with <i>me</i>, I’ve no idea.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins winked at him.  “Hey, you’re pretty charming, Captain Watson.  Don’t be surprised if all the female nurses here beat a path to your cot!”  John emitted a weak laugh, and Harry rolled her eyes.  Clara looked amused.

</p><p>“Something tells me it’s going to be a while before I can ask any of them out, though,” John added, with a feeble smile.  “Too bad—I’d welcome a date!”

</p><p>Shaking her head, Harry glanced at her watch.  “Listen, I need to go to the loo, Johnny.  I’ll be back.”  She left the ward, and Dr. McLemore followed her out, having finished whatever he was doing with the other patient.

</p><p>Biting his lower lip, John reached for Clara’s hand, his face now serious.  Weakly, he took it in his grasp, and she clasped his.  For a long moment, he lay there, troubled; Clara maintained a much stronger grasp of his hand than he was able to maintain of hers.  Despite the levity and banter he’d just enjoyed with Nurse Jenkins, Harry, and Clara, he knew that trouble was looming ahead for him.  He felt hot and sick; he knew that his fever was rising.  One nurse was staying by his side at all times, and other nurses were coming to check on him every few minutes.  All of that could mean only one thing: trouble.  Bad trouble.  He was going to be dangerously ill.

</p><p>“Just as well Harry’s stepped out.  I don’t want to frighten her if I can help it,” he whispered, and swallowed hard.  “I’m—I’m afraid this isn’t going to go well, Clara.”<b>(7)</b>

</p><p>Clara swallowed hard and forced a smile on her face.  “Well, at least, you’re here at Selly Oak.  It’s got good doctors, John.  They’ll do everything in their power to get you well and on your feet again.  I know they will.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Yeah.”  He cleared his throat.  “Yeah, they will.”  Clara gently squeezed his right hand, wincing.

</p><p>“That bad?”  John looked up at her.  “Be honest with me, Clara.”

</p><p>Clara bit her lower lip.  “Your hand’s hot, John.  And your face is flushed.”

</p><p>John bit his lower lip.  “Not good signs.”  He paused as another nurse came into the ward to check on him.  When she left, he added, “The fact that one nurse is staying with me and that other nurses are coming in to check on me every few minutes isn’t a good sign, either.”  He glanced at Nurse Jenkins as he spoke.

</p><p>Harry returned a few minutes later; by then, John was having a harder time keeping his eyes open.  Nurse Jenkins rose to her feet.  “You’d better let him rest now,” she told Harry and Clara.

</p><p>Clara nodded.  “We’ll be back tomorrow, John.”  She led Harry out, and John closed his eyes.  In a few minutes, he drifted off.

</p><p>8:00 p.m.

</p><p>John felt very sick and quite chilly when he woke up that evening.  He felt so frigid that he was shivering, even though he knew the air conditioner wasn’t up that high.  He knew that the intense cold was coming from inside his body, not from the room’s temperature.  And he was struggling to breathe; the place in his chest where the tube was hurt as he did so.  Even without access to a thermometer, he could tell that his fever had risen dramatically since he had fallen asleep earlier.  The pins-and-needles sensation in his left arm and hand, which he hoped would disappear once his arm was released from his chest, was the least of his problems at the moment.

</p><p>Before he opened his eyes, he felt a cool hand resting on his forehead.  Opening them, he saw Nurse Jenkins standing by his head, a concerned expression on her kind face.  She picked up the ear thermometer and inserted it into his ear for a moment.

</p><p>“It’s bad?” he whispered hoarsely, as she looked at the reading.

</p><p>She gave him a comforting smile.  “It’s higher than it was when you fell asleep, but you already know that.  I’ve sent for Dr. McLemore.”  John nodded.  The opiate haze was still in him, making him feel foggy.

</p><p>In that moment, Dr. McLemore strode into the ward and hurried toward John’s cot.  “It’s up to 39.4 degrees,”<b>(8)</b> Nurse Jenkins told him, handing him the thermometer.  “He’s got chills, doctor, and he’s having difficulty breathing.”  She shook her head.  “And the chest tube’s not helping.  It’s making his breathing painful, I'm afraid.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore frowned, folding his arms across his chest.  “I want you to look at me, John, OK?  I want to have a good look at your face.”  Nodding, John looked up at his face as the doctor, bending over, examined his face and then his neck carefully.

</p><p>“I see three clusters of tiny blood spots on your face, John, and another on the front of your neck,” he finally said.

</p><p>John bit his lower lip.  “Sepsis,” he whispered.

</p><p>“Yes.  Sepsis.”  Dr. McLemore laid a hand on John’s right arm.  “And we’re going to fight it, John, don’t worry.  That insurgent’s bullet didn’t take you, and I don’t intend to allow the sepsis to, either.”  John tried to smile, but couldn’t quite succeed.  As a doctor, he knew all too well what he was up against.

</p><p>“My—my stupid immune system is—fighting—my body and causing systemic infection,” he whispered, in between rapid but laboured and painful breaths.  The pain didn’t come from his left lung per se, but from the chest tube inserted into it.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “Yes.  At the moment, your immune system has released so many chemicals into your body, they’re causing a lot of inflammation.”  John grimaced and nodded.  He knew how sepsis operated.  Removing the stethoscope disk out of his right lab coat pocket, the orthopaedic surgeon placed his stethoscope’s earpieces into his ears, bent over John again, and laid the cold metal disk on John’s chest, sliding it around.  After a moment, straightening his back, he removed the earpieces, draped them back around his neck, and placed the disk back in his lab coat pocket.  “Your heartbeat’s awfully fast, and you’re struggling to breathe.  And I know the chest tube isn’t making things any easier.”

</p><p>John grimaced again.  “A few more signs.  And you’re right; it’s not.”

</p><p>“Yes.  And your struggle in breathing tells me that your lungs are being affected, too.”  Inserting his hands into his lab coat pockets, Dr. McLemore grimaced in his turn.  “But don’t worry, John.  As I said, we’re going to fight it.  With everything we’ve got.  The first thing I’m going to do is run some tests.  Unfortunately, we can’t remove the chest tube just yet, but I <i>will</i> put you on oxygen for now, and keep giving you painkillers as needed.  However—”  He looked serious.  “—I may end up having to put you back on the ventilator before it’s over.  I’ll sedate you if it comes to that.”  Grimacing, John nodded, and Dr. McLemore turned to Nurse Jenkins.  “Would you draw some blood?”

</p><p>“Yes, doctor.”  The nurse rolled up John’s sleeve, tied an elastic band tightly around his upper arm, swabbed his inner arm with some alcohol, and inserted a needle into his vein.  As soon as she had removed it, she handed the syringe to Dr. McLemore, who, giving John a reassuring smile, hurried out of the ward with the blood sample.  Nurse Jenkins inserted a pair of plastic oxygen prongs into John’s nostrils and turned on the nearby oxygen machine, and then sat back down next to his bed.  The cool oxygen coming into his nostrils felt good, and breathing shortly became easier.  Soon, John drifted off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(7)</b> That sentence has been borrowed from BlueSkye12’s story, “Meeting Clara,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8801777/1/Meeting-Clara">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/942236">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p><b>(8)</b> 39.4 degrees Celsius equals 102.9 Fahrenheit.  Not in the dangerous range yet, but definitely on its way up!</p><p>My beta-reader, Besleybean, told me about the nickname that Selly Oak locals have given the area, “Smelly Oak”.  I thought it would be amusing to insert it here! =)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Abscess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An abscess from some of the staph germs that entered John's body when he was shot forms in his brain, requiring immediate attention.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>FRIDAY, JULY 31, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>6:00 a.m.

</p><p>
  <i>“Watson!”  John whirled around to see a wounded soldier lying on his side, clutching his right leg, which was bleeding profusely.  Followed by Murray, he rushed to that soldier’s side and pulled his trouser leg up.  His calf was haemorrhaging.  The soldier would bleed to death in short order unless John acted quickly.

</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Clamps!” he ordered, holding his left hand out.  Murray handed a couple of clamps to him, and he quickly clamped off the bleeding veins and then wrapped a tourniquet around the soldier’s leg, just below the knee.  “It’s going to be all right,” he told the soldier soothingly.  “We’re going to get you to Bastion, and they’ll fix you right up.”  Wincing in pain, the soldier nodded.  John gave him a shot of morphine, and the injured soldier soon relaxed.  John wrote on a strip of surgical tape the time that he’d wrapped the tourniquet around the soldier’s calf and stuck the tape directly above it.  Just then, the medics came over and laid him on a stretcher, and then they carried him to the waiting medevac chopper.

</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Satisfied that the soldier was in good hands, John started looking for the next casualty.  Suddenly, a familiar harsh voice startled him.  “John Hamish Watson!  What are you doing here?!”

</i>
</p><p><i>John whirled around in shock, to find his father, Hamish Watson, standing in front of him, his eyes glaring at him in disapproval.  “Dad!” he gasped.  “What are </i>you<i> doing here?  You’re dead!  You shouldn’t even be here!”

</i></p><p><i>“What did I tell you?!”  Stepping forward, Hamish slapped his son’s face hard, causing John to reel back.  “About giving yourself airs?!  Becoming posh?!  You </i>never<i> should have become a doctor!  </i>Or<i> an officer!  What makes you think you have the right to be any better than I was?”

</i></p><p>
  <i>John glared at him.  “Look around us, Dad!  I am doing good for these soldiers!  Saving lives.”

</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Captain Watson!”  Murray tapped his shoulder, and John turned to face his nurse.  “Excuse me, sir, but there’s another soldier needing your attention.”

</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Right.”  As he started to turn back towards his father, John said, “Please excuse me, Dad, but—”  He froze again, this time in horror.  His father was gone, replaced by a Taliban sniper standing in his place.  Smiling coldly, the sniper raised his rifle and aimed it right at John’s heart.  He fired.

</i>
</p><p><i>BOOM!  Intense pain exploded in John’s chest.</i>

</p><p>John’s eyes shot open, and he took sudden breaths.  Had he not been much too weak to do so, he would have shot up in his cot.  <i>Just a dream!</i>  For a long moment, he stared at the ceiling above him as his breathing slowed down.  <i>Just a bad dream!  Dad’s been dead for years now, ever since I was fifteen.  So has Mum.  And all the Taliban insurgents are in Afghanistan.</i>

</p><p>“It’s all right, Dr. Watson,” Nurse Jenkin’s voice said soothingly next to him.  “You were having a bad dream.”  Without looking at her, John nodded and started measuring his breathing—three-second inhalations through his nose, three-second exhalations through his mouth.  The nose prongs brought oxygen into his lungs as he did so.  He listened to the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor and the soft hum of the air conditioner in the background as he did so.

</p><p>As John calmed down, he started becoming aware of his condition.  He felt nauseous.  His body felt hot, and beads of sweat rolled down his forehead—yet at the same time, his body also felt quite chilly.  He looked down towards his chest.  Ah.  He had been undressed except for his paper pants, and a cooling blanket had been draped over him—that explained it.  He grimaced.  That could only mean one thing: his fever was dangerously high, and they were trying to lower it.  Not so high, as yet, that he wasn’t lucid, but he knew that could easily change at any time.  He also sensed that a Foley catheter had been inserted into his body.  Since it might well be days before he could go to the bathroom or even use a bedpan or urinal once more, that made sense.  Looking down at his chest, he noticed that a loose dressing that was partly hidden by his chest tube covered the exit wound above his heart.  He couldn’t see the exit wound, but he knew it had to look grotesque.  The exit wound stank, making him grimace at the stench.  Suddenly, he began to shiver with chills.  <i>This is definitely not going to go well!</i>

</p><p>He tried to beat back the nausea.  <i>Hope I don’t start throwing up!  I’m much too weak to sit up and vomit into a sick bowl just now, even with Nurse Jenkins’s help.</i>

</p><p>To his relief, he did not.  John’s eyes soon slid shut, and he drifted off.

</p><p>9:00 a.m.

</p><p>“Get him to O.R., <i>stat</i>!  We’re got to drain out the pus immediately!”  Dr. McLemore’s gruff, commanding voice, sounding distant and muffled, filtered through John’s eardrums as he woke up.  “We’re going to have to scrape the surfaces of the bullet’s entrance and exit wounds while we’re at it.”   John was only dimly aware that he was being transported on a trolley; he was too weak and too out of it to even open his eyes.

</p><p><i>Abscess,</i> he thought dully, as the knowledge he had acquired from his medical textbooks years before came back to him.  <i>A collection of pus that has built up within the tissue of the body.  Brain abscess—an abscess caused by inflammation and collection of infected material.  It’s a collection of pus that develops in the brain due to an infection.</i>

</p><p>Hands reached underneath his shoulders and legs and lifted him up, then laid him on a mattress-covered table.  He felt so chilly.  <i>Cold,</i> he thought.  <i>Table is cold.  Room is cold.  I’m cold.  It’s a cold day.</i>

</p><p>“No, it’s not, John,” Dr. McLemore’s voice, this time calming and soothing, penetrated his eardrums again.  Had John been speaking out loud? he wondered.  “It’s hot summertime outside, and the air conditioner is set at 23.8 degrees.<b>(9)</b>  It only feels cold because your fever is so high, and you’ve got the chills.  It’s your sepsis making you so sick.”  John’s mouth twitched in acknowledgement of Dr. McLemore’s words.  “Some of the staph germs have made their way into your brain and created an abscess there, so we’ve got to operate on your head immediately, and drain the pus out.”

</p><p>John did not attempt to nod.  He felt too weak and too out of it to make the attempt; instead, he twitched his mouth again.

</p><p>“I’m going to have to shave a portion of your head, John, before I begin, but I’ll do that once you’re under,” Dr. McLemore added.  “And I’m afraid I’m going to have to scrape your bullet wounds while I’m at it, once you are.”

</p><p>A hand patted John’s shoulder, and then a mask was placed over his face.  “Start counting to 100, John.”  He began silently counting, mouthing the numbers as he did so, and soon, everything went black.

</p><p>3:00 p.m.

</p><p>John’s eyelids felt too heavy to lift as he once more became aware of his surroundings.  Instead of a cold table, he felt a sheet-covered mattress underneath his body, a soft pillow under his head, and bed covers draped over him; that meant the operation was behind him.  He still felt chilly, which made him suspect that he was still undressed and lying under the cooling blanket.  His scalp felt cooler than usual.  He still felt the pins-and-needles sensation in his left arm and hand, but for the moment, there was no pain in his shoulder or chest.  Once again, John heard the heart monitor’s beeping and the air conditioner’s hum.  He felt himself floating in a pleasant opiate haze, and the hospital cot felt comfortable.

</p><p><i>Surgery,</i> he thought.  <i>Abscess surgery.  Brain abscess.  Drained.  Hair shaved off.  Morphine.</i>

</p><p>“Hi, John.”  It was Clara’s voice.  “Harry and I are here.”  Too weak to respond in any other way, John twitched his face as he had done on the operating table.

</p><p>“Hey, Johnny, it’s really rude to ignore me, you know.”  It was Harry’s voice, in a teasing tone.  John twitched his mouth in an attempt to smile.  A hand which felt cool encased his right hand.

</p><p>A few minutes later, the hand holding his was removed.  “I gotta go to the loo,” he heard Harry say.  Her footsteps told him that she was leaving the ward.

</p><p>“It’s all right, John,” Clara said.  “We know you’re too weak to talk or look at us just now; you just rest and save your strength.  You can talk to your heart’s content when you’re feeling stronger.  Right now, I just want to let you know I’m here.  We both are.”

</p><p>He felt her hand wrapping around his and gently squeezing it.  It felt cool and comforting.  With all his might, he managed to squeeze it back just slightly with his own hot hand, then he went limp.  Just that slight squeeze had exhausted him.  He couldn’t even muster the strength to open his eyes, let alone turn his head to look at Clara.

</p><p>“I’ll just sit here with Nurse Jenkins a while.  Yes, she’s here, too.  She hasn’t left your side.  Right now, she’s sitting on the other side of your cot.”  He heard a chair being dragged across the floor toward his cot.  “You just rest, John.”  Twitching his mouth again, John drifted back off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(9)</b> The temperature, 23.8 degrees Celsius, is 75 degrees Fahrenheit.  Nowhere near low enough to make the ward feel chilly!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Prognosis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While fighting for his life, John has a dangerously high fever and some fever-induced seizures, and his prospects for survival do not look good.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>FRIDAY, JULY 31, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>8:00 p.m.

</p><p>Sepsis, also known as septicaemia, is a systemic infection in which the response of one’s body to an infection is unusually severe.  The widespread inflammation and the clots that reduce blood flow to limbs and organs, both of which result from all the chemicals that the immune system releases in that disease, can lead to organ damage, because the organs are unable to get the oxygen or the nutrients that they need.  If the sepsis is severe, septic shock, in which the blood pressure drops dangerously, can quickly cause organ failure, and can cause death.

</p><p>In addition to the brain abscess that had made it necessary for Dr. McLemore to operate on John’s head so that he could drain out the pus that morning, and to prescribe him the antibiotic known as vancomycin in order to fight the staph germs that had caused it, the wounded doctor’s sepsis had become severe by then, causing delirium, and by that evening, he was unconscious and back on a ventilator.   He was in a state of septic shock.  His fever was dangerously high, and his blood pressure had dropped to a dangerous level; Dr. McLemore was fighting desperately to get the sepsis under control so that it wouldn’t cause John’s vital organs to fail and take his life.  After draining the pus out of John’s brain, he had scraped the entrance wound on the back of John’s shoulder and the exit wound on his chest while John had lain on the operating table.  Now he lay unmoving in his cot.

</p><p>“How does it look, doctor?”  Nurse Jenkins looked from the unmoving patient to the sombre doctor, folding her arms across her chest.  John’s eyes lay closed at the moment, but there were times when they lay half-open; occasionally, during those times, they fluttered open briefly and then shut again.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore sighed and rubbed his forehead.  “Not good, nurse.  Not good at all.”

</p><p>Pain etched the nurse’s face.  “He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore looked at her, his eyes sombre.  “The prognosis isn’t good, I’m afraid.  Unless a breakthrough comes our way, <i>and</i> very quickly, it looks like he will.”

</p><p>SUNDAY, AUGUST 2, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>9:30 a.m.

</p><p>John’s body felt as if it was burning and freezing at the same time.  As it had ever since his head surgery to drain the pus out of his brain, his scalp felt unusually cool.  He couldn’t even muster the energy to lift his eyelids all the way open; half-open was as wide as he could manage them.  It was all he could do just to twitch his hands, which lay at his sides, and his mouth.  He could feel the endotracheal tube in his mouth and his windpipe, and he could hear the hiss and the push that the ventilator made as it rhythmically pumped air into his lungs.

</p><p>Some cool fingertips and a thumb pressed against the side of his neck for a moment.  When the fingertips moved away from his neck, the hand gently grasped his shoulder.  The touch felt comforting.

</p><p>John could not muster the strength needed to move, or the energy to gather any thoughts.  Both his body and his mind felt too heavy.  He couldn’t tell if it was day or night.  He was floating in an opiate haze.

</p><p>“Rest, Dr. Watson.”  It was Nurse Jenkin’s soothing voice.  “Go back to sleep if you can.  I’m right here.”  He twitched his right hand and the corners of his mouth, then made no further attempt to move.  Nurse Jenkins removed her hand, and John drifted off.

</p><p>MONDAY, AUGUST 3, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>11:15 a.m.

</p><p>“Doctor McLemore!  Dr. Watson’s having a febrile seizure!”  Nurse Jenkins gestured toward Dr. McLemore as he hurried into the ICU ward and rushed toward John’s cot.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore stared down at the wounded doctor.  Sure enough, his body was undergoing rhythmic but violent muscle contractions.  Dr. McLemore laid his hand on John’s hot, flushed forehead, and then he reached for the ear thermometer and stuck it inside John’s ear for a moment.

</p><p>“We’ve got to get his fever down, and quickly!” he said sharply, as he looked at the reading.  “Go get an ice pack, stat!”  Nodding, Nurse Jenkins hurried out of the ward.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore turned back to John and laid a hand on his arm.  “It’s all right, John,” he said softly.  “We’re doing everything we can to get your fever down.”  He knew that John probably could not hear him, especially during the seizure, but there was always a chance.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins returned with the frigid ice pack, and Dr. McLemore laid it on John’s forehead.  He pressed it gently against John’s skin.

</p><p>A few minutes later, the seizure stopped, and John’s body relaxed, but his eyes remained shut, and his body limp and unmoving.  Dr. McLemore kept the ice pack pressed against the injured, desperately sick doctor’s forehead while the nurse pulled the cooling blanket up to John’s chin.  After several minutes, Dr. McLemore removed the ice pack and inserted the ear thermometer into John’s ear again.

</p><p>“His temperature has dropped one degree,” he said.  “Not nearly enough, but for the moment, it’s out of the danger range.  Keep the ice pack handy, nurse, and be ready to place it back on his head if it rises back into the danger zone.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins nodded.  “Yes, doctor.”

</p><p>Looking down at John again, Dr. McLemore paused to check the Foley catheter; it was half-filled with urine.  Rubbing his forehead, he sighed, shook his head, and approached Corporal Ryan, who had watched the entire scenario with distress on his face.  Taking her seat and leaning back in her chair, Nurse Jenkins brushed her hair out of her face and started rubbing her fingertips together as she watched Dr. Watson, intense sorrow in her heart.

</p><p>“I won’t lie to you, corporal,” Dr. McLemore told him.  “Dr. Watson is facing the fight of his life.  But we are doing everything we can to help him win this battle.”

</p><p>The injured corporal nodded.  “I know.”  He bit his lower lip.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore examined Corporal Ryan and smiled.  “Well, I’ve got good news for <i>you</i>, at any rate.  You’ve suffered no complications since your arrival here, and you’re almost well enough, now, to leave ICU and go to a regular ward.  Once you’re there, you’ll be assigned to an occupational health team who will get you started on your rehab.”

</p><p>Corporal Ryan nodded.  “And then—Headley Court.”  That was the facility where injured soldiers were sent to undergo rehab after their discharge from Selly Oak.

</p><p>“That’s right.  Once the swelling goes down, you’ll be fitted with a prosthesis and start learning to walk on a prosthetic leg.”

</p><p>Corporal Ryan looked at John with intense sorrow on his face.  “From the looks of things, I’ll be leaving for Headley Court before he even leaves ICU.”  He shook his head.  “And that’s assuming he lives to do so.”

</p><p>“I know.  You’re probably right.  It may be that you will get to see John once he’s transferred there, depending on when he is, and how long your rehab lasts.”  The orthopaedic surgeon smiled.  “Well, get some rest.”

</p><p>He left the ward.

</p><p>SATURDAY, AUGUST 8, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>3:20 p.m.

</p><p>Over the next several days, John had several more seizures caused by his dangerously high fever.  Despite all of Dr. McLemore’s efforts, the high-strength antibiotics had very little effect on the systemic infection rampaging through John’s body.  During that time, Corporal Ryan was moved to a regular military ward, where he started rehab.

</p><p>Harry and Clara visited John every day, waiting for him to die.  Harry would stay next to John’s cot anywhere from five to ten minutes before leaving the ICU ward to go to the loo; Clara would remain by John’s side, talking to him.

</p><p>“You know, John,” Clara said on Saturday afternoon, “when we’ve been home, Harry’s been looking at the last photo you sent her before you were shot.  Every day, she just picks it up and looks at it, and then she sets it back down and looks at the others on the mantelpiece and on the wall.  The fireplace mantel shelf can’t hold them all, so we’ve framed the rest of them by now, and hung them on the wall.  I can’t wait for you to come back to London and see them.”

</p><p>John twitched his hand.  Clara patted it.  At least, he could hear her, even though he couldn’t speak or otherwise use body language.  Even without the ventilator, he was much too weak to talk.

</p><p>WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 12, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>11:00 p.m.

</p><p>John’s shoulder throbbed incessantly as he woke up; if he could have moaned in pain, he would have.  Between his extreme weakness and the ventilator, he was unable to moan, nor was he able to open his eyes any further than halfway.  <i>Hurts!  Hurts!  Wish someone could just take off my bloody shoulder and have done with it!  Then maybe it wouldn’t hurt anymore.</i>  The pins-and-needles sensation was nowhere near as bad as this shoulder pain.  Not even the pain caused by his chest tube hurt as badly as this.

</p><p>After a few minutes, Nurse Jenkin’s voice interrupted his silent moans of misery.  “It’s all right, Dr. Watson.  I know your shoulder’s hurting very badly again.  I’m injecting some morphine into your IV right now.  You’ll feel better shortly.”

</p><p>Sure enough, a few minutes later, the intense throbbing and the pain in his chest subsided, and he once more floated in an opiate haze.  His silent moans stopped, and he relaxed.  He lay there listening to the ventilator’s rhythmic hisses and pushes, and to the heart monitor’s beeping and the air conditioner’s soft hum.  He didn’t know whether it was day or night, and just then, he didn’t care.

</p><p>Harry’s visit an hour earlier drifted into John’s memory, and he remembered her words.  Thankfully, she had been sober at the time.  She had been alone, during that visit; Clara had apparently stayed back at the hotel.  Shortly after Harry had approached John’s cot and greeted the night nurse who was staying with him, another nurse had come into the ward to check his drain and replace his IV bag; her touching the drain had caused him intense pain, forcing a weak, choked moan out of his throat in spite of the ventilator in his throat and his extreme weakness.  The nurse had apologized for causing him such pain and told him that she was almost done.  When she had finished examining him and had replaced the bag, John had overheard her telling Harry that sometimes the strong ones needed permission to let go.  He knew she meant permission to die.  Several minutes after that nurse had left, Harry had taken his hand and acknowledged the pain that John was in.  She had also told him what Dr. McLemore and the nurses were thinking about his chances of survival, and that she was proud of him.  Afterwards, she had told John, in no uncertain terms, that she was <i>not</i> giving him permission to die.

</p><p>“I want you to <i>fight</i>,” she had told him fiercely.  “I want you to hang on with every ounce of stubbornness in your whole, stupid, stubborn Watson body.” <b>(10)</b>

</p><p>After she had finished making it abundantly clear to her little brother that she expected him to fight for his life, Harry had squeezed his hand as soon as she had finished talking, and it had taken every ounce of strength on John’s part to twitch his fingers and then just manage to squeeze her hand back, an effort that had exhausted him.  He had desperately wanted her to know that he had heard her, and that he had <i>no</i> intention of letting go and every intention of fighting for his life, but even if he hadn’t been too weak to speak, the ventilator wouldn’t have allowed him to do so.  He hoped that his body language, such as it was, had got his message across to her.  A short time afterward, while Harry had continued holding his hand, he had fallen asleep again, and had only just woken up a few minutes ago.  Harry had left the hospital after he’d fallen asleep, he knew—probably to pass out on a bottle of vodka.

</p><p><i>I’m in septic shock, I know.  My chances are not good, not at this point.  But I </i>will<i> fight,</i> he thought dully, as his eyelids closed.  <i>I will </i>not<i> die if I can help it.  I <i>won’t</i> let go!  I </i>will<i> get well.  Please, God, let me live.</i>  A few minutes later, he drifted off again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(10)</b> This dialogue excerpt, and the scenario in which it was set, was borrowed from BlueSkye12's story, “Permission Denied,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9869349/1/Permission-Denied">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055897">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p>And the intense pain John is enduring in his injured shoulder, which is causing him to wish that it could be cut off, is borrowed from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580107/chapters/70575171">Chapter 34</a> of sgam76’s story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/17580107/chapters/41436065">“These Old Shades,”</a> which is posted on Archive of Our Own.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Antibiotics</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John is finally able to defeat the sepsis that tried to take his life—but is the danger of life-threatening complications safely behind him yet?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>FRIDAY, AUGUST 14, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPTIAL

</p><p>8:00 a.m.

</p><p>The day after Harry’s after-hours visit, a new antibiotic was approved for use in battling sepsis by the Medical Health and Regulatory Authority (MHRA). <b>(11)</b>  As soon as it arrived at the hospital that morning, Dr. McLemore immediately ordered its use for Dr. Watson in the hope that just maybe, it would save his life.  Maybe.  He could only hope.

</p><p>While the effects weren’t immediate, little by little, John’s condition began to make miniscule improvements after the nurses started injecting the new antibiotic into his IV.  His temperature dropped half a degree by sunset that day, and another half a degree the following day.  By Friday morning, it had dropped just below the danger zone, and he was showing signs that he no longer needed the ventilator to breathe for him.

</p><p>John lay under the soft bed covers that morning, letting his thoughts drift.  He was feeling just a little bit better than he had for days.  Nurse Jenkins had taken his temperature an hour earlier, and it had dropped one degree.  He heard the footfalls of someone entering the ICU ward, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes to see who it was.

</p><p>“Hello, John.”  It was Dr. McLemore.  He felt the cold stethoscope disc being pressed against his chest, against his heart, and then against both lungs, more gently against his left lung.  The chest tube had been removed an hour earlier, so the incision had been sutured; however, it was still quite tender.  And the loose dressing still lay draped over the exit wound.

</p><p>“Well, John,” the doctor said, “I’ve got some more good news!  Not only do you no longer need the chest tube, but you’ve turned the corner in regards to your sepsis, so I’ll be able to take you off the ventilator now.  It’s going to be uncomfortable, and you’re going to feel like gagging while I do.  Once it’s out, don’t hesitate to cough if you need to.  I’ll hold you up so you can cough.”

</p><p>The removal of the ventilator tube from John’s windpipe was every bit as uncomfortable as the orthopaedic surgeon had warned him; as soon as it was out, he started gagging and couldn’t stop.  “I know, I know; let’s get it all out,” Dr. McLemore said soothingly, sliding his arm underneath John’s upper back and holding him up partway.  John continued to cough violently for the next few minutes; finally, he was able to stop.  The violent gagging had exhausted him, and his throat felt sore.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore laid him back down on the cot, and he lay there limply, too exhausted to even attempt to move or open his eyes, as the orthopaedic surgeon took his pulse.  A moment later, slowly, with effort, John managed to open his eyes and look up at Dr. McLemore.  And for the first time in days, he smiled.  A weak smile, but a smile, nonetheless.

</p><p>“That <i>is</i> a welcome sight,” Dr. McLemore said, smiling back as he let go of John’s right wrist and inserted his left hand into his left lab coat pocket.  “To see you looking at me <i>and</i> smiling.  Both were a little too difficult to manage during the worst of the infection, I know.  Especially while you were on that ventilator.”

</p><p>John nodded.  They certainly had been; even thinking had required more energy than he’d been able to muster, as a rule.  “What—what now?” he asked in a weak, hoarse whisper.

</p><p>“Well…”  Dr. McLemore grimaced.  “…I wish I could say that all the danger is behind you, John.  But although, thanks to the new antibiotic, the sepsis has begun to go away, there still remains the risk of other complications.  You’ve already had one such other: your brain abscess.  There may be other complications as well, before it’s over.  As you know, germs had a chance to enter your body when that bullet slammed into your shoulder.  Although Dr. Roland and his surgical team did their best to prevent infection by cleaning both of your bullet wounds and sterilizing their instruments, it was not possible to kill all the germs that got inside your body before you arrived in the operating theatre at Bastion.  Some of them have already made their way to your brain; you know how that turned out.  Others may be in other parts of your body.”

</p><p>“Mainly staph germs.”  John shook his head.  “I—I hoped that if I managed to survive the septic shock, the worst would be behind me,” he whispered.

</p><p>“I know you did, John,” Dr. McLemore said sympathetically.  “And it may be that you have—we will certainly hope that’s the case.  But it’s a possibility we’ll have to be prepared to deal with, if it comes.  And we <i>will</i> deal with it, if we must—make no mistake about that.  We dealt with the sepsis and the brain abscess, and we’ll deal with any other complications that arise, if we have to.”

</p><p>John nodded, setting his jaw.  He could only hope it would not be necessary, but he <i>would</i> deal with it if the need arose.

</p><p>“I’ll be honest with you, John.”  Dr. McLemore looked sombre.  “For a while there, it really looked as if you were going to die.  If it hadn’t been for that last antibiotic that we started giving you—the one that the MHRA approved just a few days ago—the odds are great that you would have.  As it is, you had several febrile seizures because of the high fever, and some of your organs did not function very well.  I was very much afraid you would go into organ failure.”

</p><p>John bit his lower lip.  “Then I definitely have something to be thankful for.  At least, I’m still alive.”  His voice sounded weak and hoarse.  He swallowed hard.  “Will—will I need an organ transplant?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore shook his head.  “Fortunately, no.  And yes, thankfully, you <i>are</i> still alive.”  He laid a hand on John’s right shoulder.  “And we are going to do everything in our power to keep you alive.”

</p><p>John smiled his thanks, and then cleared his throat.  “What about my shoulder?  How is it now?”  He grimaced.  “There’s been a pins-and-needles sensation going down my left arm from my shoulder and making its way down into my hand, ever since I first woke up here.  Is it because my arm is basically pinned to my chest by this bandage?”  He glanced down at the bandage holding his arm and the sling to his chest.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore turned his gaze to the bandaged shoulder and lifted the loose bandage to have a look at the drain.  “The surgical team at Camp Bastion did an excellent job,” he said, letting go of the bandage and sticking both hands into his lab coat pockets.  “However, it’s going to require more surgeries before your shoulder will be anywhere close to normal function, and even then, it’ll never be what it once was.  As it is, I had to scrape the surfaces of your bullet wounds—your entrance wound <i>and</i> your exit wound—and so it’s going to take longer, now, for them to heal.  There will be a degree of impairment in your shoulder extending into your arm and possibly your hand, especially since your posterior cord was also damaged—how much impairment, I can’t tell you yet—and from now on, you will have a portable barometer in your shoulder.  As for the pins-and-needles sensation, it could be because your arm is bandaged to your chest, or it could be that the damage to your cord is causing it.  We’ll just have to wait and see.”

</p><p>He clasped his hands in front of his stomach.  “At any rate, we won’t be able to wait much longer to schedule the second surgery.  I’ll let you know when it’s time.  If it turns out the damaged cord is causing the numbness in your arm and hand, we’ll deal with that when we must.”

</p><p>John nodded, biting his lower lip again.  What Dr. McLemore had just told him came as no surprise to him.  He had expected as much, both regarding the additional surgeries and the long-term prognosis for his shoulder’s recovery.  He <i>had</i>, however, hoped that the numbness would go away when his arm was released of the bandage; it was disappointing to learn that that might not be the case.  Clearing his throat, he changed the subject.  “How—how is Corporal Ryan?  He’d got a flesh wound from a bullet, and his right leg had been blown apart by an IED.  My nurse and I were treating him when I got shot.  How is he now?  Is he going to be all right?  And for that matter, are the other Fusiliers who were also injured in that skirmish going to be all right?”

</p><p>“He will be, and he’s well on the road to recovery, I’m glad to say.  As for the others who were also transferred here—let’s just say that some are recovering more quickly than others.”  The orthopaedic surgeon smiled.  “Even though Corporal Ryan’s leg had to be amputated below the knee in Bastion, fortunately, he suffered no complications from his injury, and so his time in ICU was short.  Given that he was injured by an IED, he is <i>most</i> fortunate that <i>only</i> his leg was hurt in the blast.  Too many soldiers who are hurt by IEDs come here with multiple injuries, many of which are severe and even life-threatening or permanent.  The corporal was moved out of ICU earlier to the regular military ward this month, and is undergoing rehab now; when the swelling’s gone down, he’ll be fitted with a prosthesis.  As soon as he’s ready for transfer, he’ll be moved to Headley Court.”

</p><p>John smiled.  “I’m glad.”

</p><p>“So am I.  You and Sergeant Murray did an excellent job of saving his life.”  Dr. McLemore gave him an approving smile, and then rubbed his nose and patted John’s shoulder.  “You rest now, John.  I’ll see you later.”  John nodded, and the orthopaedic surgeon strode toward another soldier’s bedside.  John’s body went completely limp; the short bedside discussion had tired him out.  He glanced at Nurse Jenkins and closed his eyes, listening to the beeping and the air conditioner’s hum; soon, he was asleep.

</p><p>5:00 p.m.

</p><p>Clara sat next to John’s bedside.  Nurse Jenkins had stepped out for a few minutes, and Harry had, as usual, gone to the loo after 10 minutes of visiting with her brother.

</p><p>“You’re looking better, John,” Clara told him.  “<i>Much</i> better without that ventilator hose in your mouth and that tube in your chest!”

</p><p>John smiled wryly.  “I feel better, too.  Some, anyway.  It’s such a relief to be able to breathe on my own now, <i>and</i> not have that bloody chest tube causing me pain when I breathe.  I’m still running a fever, and I’m still very weak, and I still can’t use my left arm at present, but at least I can open my eyes and talk now.  I was unable to for days.”  Clara nodded.

</p><p>“So—is it over now?”  Clara tilted her head questioningly.

</p><p>Troubled, John bit his lower lip and cleared his throat.  “I wish I could say yes.”  He glanced down at his bandaged shoulder and then his left arm and hand for a long moment, and then back at Clara.  “I had a talk with Dr. McLemore this morning, after he took me off the ventilator.  While the sepsis <i>is</i> starting to subside, there may be other complications to face before it’s over.  I’ve already had one: a brain abscess.  That’s why my hair has a large bald patch and looks so short and ragged now.  Dr. McLemore had to shave part of my head and cut into it to get to the abscess, so he could drain the pus out.  He scraped the surface of my bullet wounds while he was at it.”

</p><p>Clara nodded, and he paused, swallowing hard.  “And there may be other complications.  Not to mention that my left arm may never be what it once was.  There will always be a degree of impairment—what Dr. McLemore and I don’t know is how much.  And I’ve got a portable barometer now.”

</p><p>Clara laid a hand on his right arm.  “Well, if there <i>are</i> complications, and if your left arm is never again able to function as it used to, we’ll face them together.”

</p><p>John gave her a wan smile.  “Thanks, Clara.”

</p><p>Harry returned to the ward and approached John’s cot.  “Face what, together?”

</p><p>“John was saying there may be other complications he’ll have to deal with before it’s over,” Clara told her.  “And there’s going be a degree of permanent impairment in his shoulder and his left arm; how much, he and Dr. McLemore don’t know yet.  But we already knew that, Harry.”

</p><p>Harry shook her head.  “I know.  But more bloody complications after what we’ve already been through, with this one?  No way!  Can’t.”

</p><p>John grimaced.  “Believe me, Harry, I feel the same way.  After what I’ve already been through, the last thing I want is to find myself dealing with another complication, especially if it’s life-threatening like this last one.  But it’s not as if I’m getting any say in the matter, you know.  After all, there are still other germs running around inside my body that shouldn’t be there, thanks to that bullet.”

</p><p>Harry glared at him.  “It wouldn’t have happened, you know, if you’d just stayed out of the bloody army, Johnny!”

</p><p>“Harry!  That’s enough,” Clara said firmly.  “Blaming John is not going to help now.”  With a pout, Harry plopped onto the chair Nurse Jenkins had vacated and did not reply for a long moment, but glared down at the floor.

</p><p>“Sorry,” she finally muttered.  With a sigh, she looked up at John.  “I want you to get better, Johnny.  I want you out of here.”

</p><p>With a rueful smile, John raised his right hand and dropped it back on the cot.  “So do I.”  He gave Clara an apologetic look.  “She’s never forgiven me for joining the army, you know.”

</p><p>Clara shook her head.  “Yeah, I do know.  But it was your right to make that choice.”

</p><p>“It certainly was.”  He gave his older sister a look and then grimaced down at the thick white bandage covering his shoulder.  “It’s not just the possibility of more complications I have to face; I’ll also have to have more surgeries before my shoulder is functional again, or as close to functional as it can ever hope to be.  Dr. McLemore doesn’t yet know when or how many, but he’ll let me know when the first one’s been scheduled.  It won’t be much longer now, he says.  Hopefully, my shoulder will be better once they’re all finished, but to what extent it will be, he can’t say.  Needless to say, I’ll also have to have rehab when the time comes.  Unfortunately, even with more surgery and rehab, the damage done to my shoulder was much too extensive to have total recovery of my shoulder and arm’s function.”

</p><p>“Do you want to have more surgeries?” Harry asked.

</p><p>John snorted.  “What I <i>want</i> is to be well <i>now</i>, so I can get out of here and return to active duty.  Obviously, I’m not, so I’m going to have to do whatever Dr. McLemore tells me, so I can get well.  I do want a fully functioning shoulder when all of this is over, or at least a close to fully functioning as I can get it, and if more surgeries are what it’s going to take to get it at least close to that point, then that’s what’s going to have to be done.  Once my surgeries are over, and all complications are behind me, I’ll doubtless have to have rehab, too, a spot of physical and occupational therapy.  To what extent my arm and shoulder will function once more, once the surgeries and rehab are finished, no one knows.”

</p><p>“That’s true,” Clara agreed, nodding.

</p><p>John lay limply on the cot.  Talking had exhausted him, and now he needed to replenish what little energy he had.  Clara rose to her feet, and Harry followed suit.  “We’ll be back later, Johnny,” his older sister told him.

</p><p>John smiled weakly.  “Looking forward to it.  See you later, both of you.”  Waving good-bye at him, Harry and Clara left the ward.  With a sigh, John closed his eyes.  He couldn’t stop worrying about the prospect of more complications, or about the prospect of permanent arm, hand, and shoulder impairment.  He made an effort to push all of that out of his mind and focus on the fact that he was better now.  Soon, in spite of his anxiety about the near future, he soon drifted off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(11)</b> <i>Was</i> such a drug approved by Great Britain’s counterpart to our own Food and Drug Administration in the late summer of 2009?  You tell me!  At any rate, unless Great Britain’s medical profession knows something I don’t, I reckon it’s about as likely as the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers still being in existence.  And hey, I needed a reason as to why John was able to survive and recover from septic shock against all odds! =)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Surgeries</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John comes down with another life-threatening complication—this time, an infection in his right leg.  At the same time, he has to undergo more surgeries.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MONDAY, AUGUST 17, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>8:15 a.m.

</p><p>John lay in his cot, looking down at the polka-dotted white sleeves covering his arms.  To his relief, Nurse Jenkins had finally dressed him in a hospital nightgown that morning; at least, he didn’t feel so naked anymore.  Over the last few days, his fever had been going down; the last time the nurse had taken his temperature, it had only been two degrees higher than normal.  If no more complications set in, it would disappear altogether.

</p><p><i>If</i> no more complication set in!

</p><p>John set his jaw and took a deep breath.  All he could do was rest, try to stay nourished, and do everything that Dr. McLemore told him.  Once the IV was removed, he would have to start taking oral medication.  The rest was out of his hands, he knew.  At least, at present, Nurse Jenkins and the night-time nurses were no longer staying by his side round the clock, which was a good sign.  For now, the pain medication he was on was mitigating the pain in his wounded shoulder.

</p><p><i>Too bad it can’t mitigate the pins-and-needles sensation while it’s at it!  I’ll have to wait till I’m free to use my left arm once more before I’ll know if it’ll go away.</i>  He scowled down at his left arm, which was still bandaged to his chest, and his hand.

</p><p>He sighed.  <i>I wish I had a book to read!  Though I might still be too weak to read one just yet.  And with my left arm still bandaged to my side, it’d be really difficult to hold the book </i>and<i> turn the pages with one hand, in any case.  Especially since it’s my dominant hand that’s out of commission.</i>

</p><p>He closed his eyes.  If he couldn’t read, at least he could try to take another nap.  As he lay there listening to the beeping and the air conditioner’s soft hum, he drifted off.

</p><p>1:10 p.m.

</p><p>John opened his eyes.  He was starting to feel more feverish, his shoulder was throbbing again, and his right calf was also throbbing, with the worst of the pain just below his knee.  Neither of his legs had hurt at all until now.  On top of all that, he was feeling nauseous again.

</p><p><i>Uh-oh!  This is </i>not<i> a good sign.  None of these signs are!  Where’s Nurse Jenkins?  I need her!</i>  He winced as an especially intense throbbing pain shot through his injured shoulder.  <i>At times like this, I wish they could just take my bloody shoulder and have done with it!  It really hurts!</i>

</p><p>To his relief, Nurse Jenkins entered the ward and approached his cot.  “How are you feeling, Dr. Watson?” she asked him, brushing her hair out of her brown eyes and then sticking her hands in her nursing uniform pockets.

</p><p>Wincing, John grimaced.  “To tell you the truth, not so good.  I’m worried, Nurse Jenkins.  My shoulder’s still throbbing—it really hurts—and my left arm is numb and tingling, but that’s to be expected, I know.  Much of my right calf is throbbing, too, and it shouldn’t be; the worst of the pain is just below my knee.  My leg wasn’t throbbing this morning.  I’ve started to feel feverish again.  And I’m nauseous once more.”

</p><p>Furrowing her brow, Nurse Jenkins removed her hands out of her pockets and laid her right hand on John’s forehead; it felt cool on his skin.  The furrow of her brow deepened.  Picking up the ear thermometer, she inserted it into his right ear for a moment, looking at her watch as she did so; as soon as she removed it, she straightened her back and looked at the thermometer’s reading.

</p><p>“Your fever has started to rise again,” she said.  “I’m going to page Dr. McLemore.”  John nodded, and she hurried out of the ward.  Seconds later, he could hear the orthopaedic surgeon being paged over the intercom.  He winced and writhed in agony.

</p><p>A few minutes later, Dr. McLemore and Nurse Jenkins hurried into the room and made a beeline towards John’s cot.  “Nurse Jenkins tells me your temperature’s risen again, that you’re feeling nauseous, and that your right calf and your injured shoulder both really hurt,” he said.  John nodded.  “What kind of pain is it?”

</p><p>“It—it throbs very badly.  True agony.”  John cleared his throat.  “It’s—it’s coming from inside my leg.  And my shoulder, once again.”

</p><p>“Constant or intermittent?”

</p><p>“Constant.”

</p><p>“Where in your right leg does it hurt?”

</p><p>John bit his lower lip.  “The worst of the pain is just below my knee, but there’s pain elsewhere in my calf, too.  My right thigh feels fine, and so does my left leg.”

</p><p>“When did it start?”

</p><p>“I just noticed them when I woke up.  My leg wasn’t hurting this morning, there was no nausea, and I was feeling better than I have since I was shot.  In fact, I was hoping that my temperature would soon be back to normal.”  He looked intently at Dr. McLemore.  “Surely, I’m not having a relapse of my sepsis?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore shook his head.  “No, whatever this is, it’s not a relapse.  Hold on while I have a look at your leg.”

</p><p>He removed the bed covers back from John’s legs and pulled up John’s polka-dotted white hospital nightgown to examine both legs.  He rubbed his fingers over John’s left calf and left thigh, and then his right thigh and right calf.  John winced in pain when the orthopaedic surgeon’s fingers pressed down on his right calf.  Furrowing his brow, Dr. McLemore took his hand off John’s calf.

</p><p>“The pain in your shoulder, we can expect, since it’s still recovering from the damage caused by that bullet.  In a minute, Nurse Jenkins will inject some morphine into your IV.  Your leg, however, is another story.  Your entire left leg appears to be fine, as does your right thigh, but part of your right calf is reddish and feels warmer than it should, and your entire calf is a little bit swollen.  The worst of the redness and swelling is just below your knee.  And it’s tender, isn’t it?”  John nodded.  Straightening his back and squaring his shoulders, Dr. McLemore looked at John, inserting his hands in his lab coat pockets.  “I’m going to order a blood test, an CT, and a bone biopsy done, so we can see what we’re dealing with.  Once we do, we’ll know where to go from there.”

</p><p>John looked hard at him as he clenched his right fist in agony.  “You already have an idea of what it is, don’t you?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “Yes, I do, John.  But until I know for sure, I don’t want to say anything more.  I’m going to order the tests set up now.”  He turned to the nurse.  “Stay with him until I return, and give him a dose of morphine.”  Nurse Jenkins nodded, injected some morphine into John’s IV, and sat down next to John, rubbing her fingertips against each other.  In a few minutes, the throbbing began to subside, and John was once more floating in an opiate haze.

</p><p>He bit his lower lip.  He already had a feeling he knew what it was; it was just a matter of waiting for Dr. McLemore to confirm his suspicions.  Osteomyelitis!  It could be just as life-threatening as the sepsis had been.  He swore.

</p><p><i>I’m in for another bloody battle for my life!</i>  He groaned inwardly at the prospect.  <i>How many more such battles do I have to fight before all this is over?!  And will I survive them all?  Please, God, let me live!  And please let me keep my leg!</i>

</p><p>Over the next few hours, the tests were performed.  John was lifted onto a trolley and rolled to an examination room, where another nurse drew some blood out of his arm.  When that test was finished, Dr. McLemore performed the bone biopsy.  After injecting the affected area of John’s right calf with a local anaesthetic, the orthopaedic surgeon inserted another needle directly into his bone directly below his knee, to withdraw some tissue out of the bone marrow.  Then he was taken to another room for the CT scan.  When all of the tests were finished, the orderlies returned John to the ICU ward and laid him back on his cot.  Nurse Jenkins sat down next to him once more and held his hand as John swallowed hard.

</p><p>He lay there under the soft bed covers, limp and exhausted; his eyes slid shut.  Even though the others had done all the work, undergoing all of those tests had still been exhausting.  All he wanted to do, now, was rest until Dr. McLemore came back with the results of the tests.  He drifted off.

</p><p>5:00 p.m.

</p><p>“John!  Wake up.”

</p><p>Groaning, John opened his eyes and looked up at the orthopaedic surgeon gazing down at him, hands in his lab coat pockets, and Nurse Jenkins by his side.  Both of their faces looked serious.  John cleared his throat.  “You have the results, don’t you?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “Yes.”

</p><p>John sighed.  “Osteomyelitis.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded again, looking sombre.  “Yes.  Caused by some of the <i>Staphylococcus aureus</i> that entered your body through the bullet wound.  As you know, some of it entered your brain and caused that abscess.  The rest of it must have travelled through your bloodstream down to the calf bones in your right leg, where they’ve taken up residence inside your bone marrow.”  His eyes softened.  “And now that we know what it is, we’re going to fight it, just as we did the sepsis and the brain abscess.”

</p><p>John gazed down at the infected leg for a long moment, and then back up at the other doctor.  “Am I going to lose the leg?” he asked dully, and then cleared his throat.  He clenched his right fist as he anxiously awaited the answer.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore shook his head.  “Not yet.  Not unless we can’t defeat the infection with antibiotics.  We will use those first.   I should forewarn you, John: the antibiotics I’m going to have to prescribe for the osteomyelitis are very potent and very poisonous.  You will most certainly run the risk of other complications while you’re taking them.  But the risk will have to be taken if there’s to be any chance at all of saving your leg <i>and</i> your life.  Amputation, if it comes to that, will be a last-resort measure.”  John nodded, biting his lower lip and clenching his right hand again.

</p><p>Clearing his throat, Dr. McLemore added, “And John, even though you’re already battling osteomyelitis, we can’t put off the surgeries to your shoulder any longer.  We’ve got to schedule them now, before the bones in your shoulder have had a chance to misalign permanently.  Hopefully, once they’re done, the nonstop throbbing in your shoulder will end.  I’m scheduling the next one for 8:00 tomorrow morning, and the one after that three days from now.  That will make three surgeries your shoulder will have undergone, altogether.”

</p><p>John nodded again.  He had known that would have to be done.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore patted his arm.  “I’ll be back later, and meantime, I’m going to prescribe an antibiotic today, which Nurse Jenkins will inject into your IV.  But since we’re looking at most likely weeks of antibiotic treatment, I’m going to take you into theatre, to insert a peripherally inserted central catheter into your heart; I will use that to administer the antibiotics and the morphine after this.  I’ll insert the PICC catheter tomorrow morning, when I operate on your shoulder; that will spare you an extra operation just to have that procedure done.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “That’s fine with me.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins stuck the hypodermic needle into John’s IV and injected the antibiotic into it.  When she had finished, she dropped it into the sharps’ container close to John’s cot.  Dr. McLemore patted his arm.  “I’ll see you in the morning, John, to prep you for the surgery.”  John nodded, and the other doctor left.  Nurse Jenkins sat back down.

</p><p>TUESDAY, AUGUST 18, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>8:00 a.m.

</p><p>At 7:30 in the morning, a nurse entered the room to give John a tranquiliser by needle; he soon became sleepy.  He had been given a dose of morphine at 7:00, so he was already floating in an opiate haze when he received the tranquiliser.  At 7:45 a.m., a couple of orderlies brought a trolley into the ICU ward and gently lifted a groggy John onto it.  They took him down the hall to the operating theatre, where they moved him onto the operating table.  Opening his eyes, he looked up at the light-green walls surrounding him.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore, who was wearing a blue operating gown, cap, mask, and gloves, approached the table where John lay.  “Once you’re under, I’ll temporarily remove the bandage and the sling holding your arm in place and operate on your shoulder first.  When that’s done, I’ll insert the PICC line.”

</p><p>John nodded and yawned.  “It’s going into my heart,” he said sleepily.

</p><p>“Yes.”  Dr. McLemore nodded back.  “The catheter will be flushed with saline before I get started inserting it.  Once your skin is prepped, I will insert the catheter into your cephalic vein via an introducer, and thread it through your veins into your cavoatrial junction.  There, your prescribed antibiotic and morphine will be injected directly into your heart on a regular basis until I remove the catheter.  A fluoroscopy will be used throughout the surgical procedure, to monitor the pin position and confirm placement.”

</p><p>John nodded again.  Even though he had never performed this procedure as a trainee surgeon, he had read about it in medical journals and watched it being done more than once during his days as a house officer.  “I’m ready.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore gently placed a mask over John’s face.  “Now, then, John, breathe deeply and start counting to one hundred.”

</p><p>Taking deep breaths, John started counting softly.  He was asleep before he had reached the number twenty.

</p><p>3:00 p.m.

</p><p>John yawned as he opened his eyes.  He was lying in a hospital cart.  He recognized the room he was in—a recovery room.  Like the operating room, its walls were light green.  He groaned—he felt so sick, and his leg and shoulder still hurt terribly!  <i>Shall I wish they’d take my leg as well as my shoulder?!</i>

</p><p>“You’re awake,” the nurse said, as she approached his cot.  He looked at her—it wasn’t Nurse Jenkins, but another nurse.  “Both procedures are finished now.”  She injected some morphine into his PICC, and soon, the pain eased.  He relaxed.

</p><p>"Thanks."  John looked down at his left arm, once more bandaged to his chest, and then at his right wrist—the IV had been removed, he noticed.  “How did they go?”

</p><p>“They went well.”  The nurse smiled.  “The PICC line is in your heart now, and your shoulder has been further repaired.  Dr. McLemore says it’ll need at least one or two more operations before it’ll be as close to healed as it’ll ever be, and he’ll perform the next surgery two days from now.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Think I’ll go to sleep now.”  The nurse nodded, and he closed his eyes.

</p><p>5:15 p.m.

</p><p>When he woke up again, he was back in the ICU ward.  Nurse Jenkins was once more sitting by his side.  “Good to see you,” he whispered, smiling.  He was still floating in an opiate haze, and to his relief, there was no pain in his leg or shoulder.

</p><p>“And you.”  Reaching over, Nurse Jenkins wiped a short strand of hair away from his eyes.  “Dr. McLemore will let you know when it’s time for the third surgery on your shoulder.  This time, it’ll be just the shoulder he works on; he’s hopeful that the throbbing will go away once it’s over.  I’ve given you some morphine to ease the pain you’re still suffering in your leg, especially, but also the pain in your shoulder.”

</p><p>“I know.  And thanks for the morphine.”  John smiled and closed his eyes again.  He didn’t feel like doing anything except sleeping.

</p><p>6:30 p.m.

</p><p>When he woke up, he felt chilled and very sick once more.  <i>Bloody fever’s risen up high again!</i>  He glanced down to find a cooling blanket once more covering his body.  While he’d been asleep, the hospital nightgown had been removed from his body again; except for the paper pants, he felt naked once more.

</p><p>“What’s my fever now?” he asked Nurse Jenkins in his hoarse weak voice.

</p><p>“Last I checked, 39.4. <b>(12)</b>  It’s risen in the last few hours.”  Nurse Jenkins looked sombre.  “But don’t worry.  We’re going to fight the infection that’s causing it.”

</p><p>“I know.”  Biting his lower lip, John shook his head and sighed. <i> How long,</i> he wondered, <i>until I’m delirious once more?</i>

</p><p>“Hello, John.”  It was Clara’s voice.  Turning his head, he saw her following Harry into the ward.

</p><p>John grimaced as they approached his cot.  “It’s not over yet,” he whispered.  “Osteomyelitis in my right leg.  Dr. McLemore’s prescribed antibiotics to fight it.  And morphine for the pain.”

</p><p>“We know.  He rang us and told us this afternoon.”  Clara exchanged a look with Harry; both women looked troubled.

“You cold, Johnny?” Harry asked, furrowing her brow.

</p><p>John nodded.  “Yes.  My fever’s high once more.  They’ve got me back underneath a cooling blanket to try and bring it down; they had to take off my hospital nightgown again.”  He paused.  “Dr. McLemore operated on my shoulder and inserted the PICC line this morning.  He’s going to operate on my shoulder again in a couple of days, to repair it still further.”  They nodded.

</p><p>THURSDAY, AUGUST 20, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>2:00 p.m.

</p><p>John spent the rest of that day and the next fighting the high fever caused by the osteomyelitis and, off and on, the severe pain in his calf and the equally severe throbbing in his shoulder.  During that time, his temperature fluctuated from 40 to 41.1 degrees. <b>(13)</b>  He kept shivering from chills caused by his fever and from the coldness caused by the cooling blanket.  Despite the fact that it was August-warm, he felt as cold as if it were early January.  Nurse Jenkins kept bringing him glasses of ice water to suck through a straw, in the hopes of helping to bring the fever down; he was too weak to lift his head, so she would hold his head up until he had finished drinking it.  As a result, the Foley catheter kept collecting more and more urine.

</p><p>On Dr. McLemore’s orders, morphine was injected into his PICC line to relieve the constant throbbing in his right leg and in his shoulder.  Because of the morphine, he floated in an opiate haze much of the time, unaware of whether it was day or night.  All the while, Dr. McLemore monitored his morphine doses very carefully, to protect John from becoming addicted.  Fortunately, he didn’t have to go back on a ventilator, for which he was thankful.

</p><p>On Thursday morning, John was taken back to the operating theatre, where Dr. McLemore once again operated on his shoulder.  When he saw John again after he came to, he told him, “I’ve done as much major repair work as I can, John.  We’ll see if the throbbing in your shoulder is gone now.  There’s still some minor repair work that needs to be done before it’s over, but that can wait for now.  Right now, our main priority is fighting the infection in your bone.  That may take weeks to combat.”

</p><p>John nodded agreement.  He was in no hurry to undergo any more surgeries just yet.  All he wanted, at the moment, was to get over the osteomyelitis.

</p><p>“You said weeks,” he said, his voice once again weak and hoarse.  “I won’t need the ventilator for this battle, will I?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore shook his head.  “Thankfully, no.  Unless something happens that I don’t anticipate, you shouldn’t need the ventilator again.”

</p><p>John nodded, relieved.  He faced a major battle as it was—he knew that the antibiotics that Dr. McLemore had prescribed were very potent and poisonous, and having to take them posed their own dangers.  He faced the very real risk of complications just by taking them, and by having the antibiotics given through the PICC line into his heart.  (He also faced the risk of morphine addiction if Dr. McLemore didn’t keep a watchful eye on the amounts he gave John.)  Still, if he didn’t want to die or lose his leg, it was a risk that had to be taken; he had no choice there.  All he could do was wait, rest, follow his doctor’s orders, and pray.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(12)</b> 39.4 degrees Celsius=102.9 Fahrenheit.</p><p><b>(13)</b> 40 to 41.1 degrees, Celsius=104 to 105.98 degrees Fahrenheit.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Procedures</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While John is battling the osteomyelitis, he undergoes yet another surgery on his shoulder and receives bad news.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>Less than two weeks had passed since the osteomyelitis had set in, and John had spent that whole time fighting for his life.  On Dr. McLemore’s orders, the hospital nightgown had been left off of John’s body, and he had been kept under the cooling blanket; in addition, cold, wet flannels had been laid on his forehead on a regular basis.  It took much effort for him to do so, but he managed to choke down the ice water that Nurse Jenkin insisted he drink; since he was too weak to lift up his head, she would hold it up for him as she held the straw to his lips.  Throughout that time, he had shivered with cold in his cot, naked except for his paper pants, and his temperature had reached 41.1 <b>(14)</b> in spite of all efforts to bring it back down.  Fortunately, he didn’t become delirious as he had during the battle with sepsis, and a few days before, Dr. McLemore had finally removed the bandage binding John’s left arm to his chest; however, he still had to keep it in the sling.  He could lift his arm up off his chest now, but he wasn’t supposed to remove it from the sling yet.  Thankfully, the latest surgery had brought an end to the intense throbbing in his shoulder, but there was still residual pain in it.  John had soon discovered that impending bad weather made the pain worse; Dr. McLemore had certainly been right about his shoulder now being a portable barometer.

</p><p>However, no sooner had John’s left arm regained a measure of freedom of movement than he began to notice that a problem he had hoped his arm’s release from the bandage would alleviate was still there.  His left fingers still felt numb, and the unpleasant pins-and-needles sensation continued to spread down his left arm, until it reached his fingertips; he had hoped against hope that the sensation was the result of having his arm fastened to his chest.  He tried repeatedly to get rid of the sensations by stretching his fingers out as straight as they would go.  Despite all efforts on his part to make that sensation go away, it stubbornly refused to do so.  Dr. McLemore had frowned when John had told him that the pins-and-needles feeling was still there, and about his lack of feeling in his left fingers, and how it had refused to go away.

</p><p>“This is something I’d expect to happen if I lay on my arm for an extended period of time,” he’d said in his weak voice.  “As you know, I’ve felt it ever since I first regained consciousness here.  At first, I thought it was because my arm was fastened to my chest, but it’s still there, even now.  I mean, my arm’s finally free from my chest, if not the sling, so it should not be happening now.”

</p><p>“No.”  Dr. McLemore had shaken his head and folded his arms across his chest.  “I agree.  I told you there was still some minor surgery that needed to be done on your shoulder before we were through, and it looks as if I’m going to have to schedule that surgery soon, John.  We already know that your posterior cord was damaged when your shoulder was shattered, and it may be that there are some bone fragments still in there that are pressing on the axilla.  I’ll go in there and see if there are.”  John had nodded.  As of Tuesday morning, he hadn’t yet heard when the next surgery had been scheduled.  He fervently hoped that this next surgery would fix that issue.

</p><p>In the meantime, the numbness and pins-and-needles sensation in John’s left arm and hand was the least of his problems.  As he had done immediately after the shooting, and during his battle with the sepsis, he was fighting for his life.  He faced the very real danger that he might either die or lose his right leg.  He shuddered at the prospect of either happening.  He alternated between the opiate haze and the severe throbbing in his right calf.  Clara had been spending large amounts of time by his side, talking to him and reading to him.  On Dr. McLemore’s orders, Nurse Jenkins and the night-time and weekend nurses had resumed taking turns staying by his side at all times.

</p><p>“John?”  He turned his head to find the orthopaedic surgeon striding towards his cot.  He raised his left hand in greeting and nodded.  Dr. McLemore nodded toward Nurse Jenkins and then turned to John, sticking his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “Before I schedule the surgery in your shoulder, first I want to conduct a CAT scan of your shoulder, to find out just what we’re dealing with.  If there <i>are</i> any bone fragments in your shoulder, the CAT scan will show us where they are.  In a few minutes, a couple of orderlies will be coming to take you to the CT room.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “OK.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore smiled.  “I’ll see you there with the radiology technologist.”  He left.

</p><p>Sure enough, a few minutes later, two orderlies entered the ICU ward with a trolley and lifted a shivering John onto it.  They rolled him out the door and down the hall towards the lift; a few minutes later, they exited the lift and took him down the hall to the CT room.

</p><p>In the CT room, a strange man wearing a surgical gown approached John.  “Hello, Captain Watson, I’m Eric Rowland.  I’m one of the radiology technologists in charge of the CAT scans.  As soon as we make sure there are no metal objects outside of your body that could interfere with the reading of your shoulder, we’ll move you onto the table and prep you for your scan.”  John nodded; the other technologist who had performed his previous scan had done the same thing.  After making sure that no metal accessories were lying anywhere near his shoulder, the orderlies moved him onto the scanner table, and a nurse covered him with a regular blanket.  He would not be placed back under the cooling blanket until he was back in the ICU ward.

</p><p>“I know you remember this from your last CAT scan, Dr. Watson, but I just want to remind you before we begin.  Fortunately, all you will hear during the scan will be a whirring, a clicking, or buzzing noise.”  John rolled his eyes as he shivered with cold; yes, he remembered.  Eric chuckled.  “Just as fortunately, it won’t take very long, and it’ll be painless.  Dr. McLemore is waiting for me in the control room, where I’m going to be monitoring the scan.  Once it’s finished, he and I will go over the pictures to find out where he needs to perform the repair work.”

</p><p>John nodded, still feeling very sick and shivering with chills.  “So far, so good.  Anything else I need to know?”

</p><p>“Since you’re a doctor, and since you’ve been through this procedure before, I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, but just as you would when having an X-ray, it’s vital that you lie perfectly still, because any movement will disrupt the images we’re taking.  Since it’s your left shoulder we’re taking the images of, it is your shoulder, in particular, that you must not move.  So, keep your left arm perfectly still and inside the sling until the procedure is done.”

</p><p>John nodded acquiescence, but he couldn’t stop shivering.  He grimaced.  “I’ll try.  Just one problem—I’m feeling sick, and I’ve got a high fever and chills.  As you can see, I haven’t been able to stop shivering, I’m so cold.  That’s going to create a problem for me if I have to lie perfectly still during the CT scan.”

</p><p>“I know.  Dr. McLemore is going to give you a sedative before we start, so you’ll be asleep while the scan is in progress.”  Eric patted his right arm.  “I’ll go to the control room to get started, and Dr. McLemore will be in here shortly to inject the sedative into your PICC line.”

</p><p>He left the room, and John lay shivering on his back, gazing up at the light-blue ceiling and then scanning the room without lifting his head.  Last, he looked at the CAT scan machine he would soon be lying under.  He’d been given another dose of morphine before the orderlies had arrived, so at least his right leg didn’t hurt at the moment.  It would be doubly difficult to be writhing in intense pain as well as shivering with cold.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore entered the room with a hypodermic syringe in his hand.  He injected it into John’s PICC line.  “In just a few minutes, you’ll be asleep, so you won’t be shivering during the procedure.”  John smiled; a moment later, drowsiness began to creep over him.  He knew the procedure wouldn’t take long.  How soon would Dr. McLemore give him the results…?

</p><p>“John!  Wake up.  It’s over.”  A hand gently shook his right shoulder, and John opened his eyes.  He was back in the ICU ward, and Dr. McLemore and Nurse Jenkins were standing by his side.  The nurse was rubbing her fingertips in front of her waist, and the orthopaedic surgeon was keeping his left hand in his left lab coat pocket.  Dr. McLemore smiled.

</p><p>“Yes, it’s over, and you’re back in the intensive care ward now.  And I’ve already gone over the CAT scan images.  Just as I suspected, you have several bone chips floating in your shoulder, John—eight of them, altogether—and your coracoclavicular ligament also needs to be repaired.  I’ve scheduled the surgery for 8 a.m. tomorrow morning, so I don’t want you to have anything to eat or drink after midnight.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Yes, Dr. McLemore.”

</p><p>“When the operation is over, and you’re awake, I’ll tell you what the results were, and what we can expect at that point.”

</p><p>John nodded.  Mixed emotions were surging through his heart at that prospect.  Part of him was eager to get the operation over with in the hopes that the numbness and the pins-and-needles sensation would disappear altogether, and the other part of him feared that the operation would not work.  He took a deep breath in an effort to calm himself.  He would have to deal with the results, however they turned out.  At least, while there was still a residual pain in his shoulder, a pain that got worse when bad weather was approaching or in the area, the severe throbbing he’d been forced to endure before his third surgery was no longer there.

</p><p>“John.”  He looked up at the orthopaedic surgeon, who looked serious now.  “As I said, I hope that this surgery will fix the problem.  But I cannot promise that it will, and you already know that.  Whether it will or not, we’ll find out tomorrow, and we’ll deal with it then.”

</p><p>Biting his lower lip, John nodded.  He knew.  Dr. McLemore laid his hand on John’s shoulder.

</p><p>“Get some rest.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”  He left the ward and John exchanged an uneasy look with Nurse Jenkins, who had just taken her seat at his side.

</p><p>WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 2, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>8:00 a.m.

</p><p>John lay on the operating table, waiting for Dr. McLemore to put him under and gazing up at the light green ceiling.  Already in his surgical scrubs, the orthopaedic surgeon approached him.

</p><p>“All right, John, it’s time to sleep now.”  He laid the mask on John’s face.  “You know the drill by now: take deep breaths and count to 100.”  John nodded and started counting softly, falling asleep in less than a minute.

</p><p>2:30 p.m.

</p><p>John, now awake and back in the ICU ward, lay on his hospital cot, back under the cooling blanket once more, still shivering with chills and high fever, and now bitter with disappointment on top of it.  Misery churned in his heart.  Dr. McLemore had been waiting by his side when he’d woken up in recovery an hour earlier.  The news, when he’d given it, had not been good.

</p><p>In truth, it had been a mixture of good news and bad news.  The bone chips were gone now, all eight of them, and Dr. McLemore had repaired the coracoclavicular ligament just as he’d said he would.  That would reduce John’s shoulder discomfort and free his range of motion a little, thankfully.  And as he had already known, none of the three cords in his shoulder had been severed, which was indeed good news, given the state his clavicle had been in upon his arrival at Bastion; his arm would have been put totally out of commission permanently if that had happened.  But the numbness, the pins-and-needles sensation, was still there, and the rest of Dr. McLemore’s news was bad.  Nothing had been pressing on the axilla as both of them had hoped; the damage to the posterior cord was causing the numbness.  Dr. McLemore’s words kept coming back to haunt him: <i>“the posterior cord is visibly damaged…I’m sorry, John, but I don’t think there is anything more that can be done.”</i> <b>(15)</b>

</p><p>John took a deep, shuddering breath and squeezed his eyes shut.  He knew that Dr. McLemore had truly hated giving him that piece of bad news.  As a doctor, he’d had to give his share of bad news to his patients through the years, and he’d hated it every time.

</p><p><i>What now?</i> he wondered.  <i>Even if I do manage to survive the bone infection and keep my leg, and even if I suffer no other complications, what now?</i></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(14)</b> 41.1 Centigrade/Celsius is 105.98 in Fahrenheit.</p>
<p><b>(15)</b> These words of dialogue were borrowed from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011389/chapters/4360977#workskin">Chapter 2</a> of BlueSkye12’s story, “Therapy Can Be Very Helpful”, which can be found on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10561454/1/Therapy-Can-Be-Very-Helpful">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011389/chapters/4360950">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Dialysis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>One of the antibiotic's complications that Dr. McLemore warned John about begins to set in, endangering his long-term health.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>7:00 a.m.

</p><p>John lay on his back underneath the cooling blanket, still shivering with chills and feeling very sick, and now short of breath; Nurse Jenkins had just encouraged him to finish drinking yet another glass of ice water and laid another cold compress on his forehead.  He knew that his temperature was still hovering around 41.1 <b>(16)</b>; despite all of the hospital’s efforts, it had not been possible to reduce it to a safer level, so far.  And because of the opiate haze that John was currently floating in, it was hard to keep track of the time.  He lay there with his eyes shut most of the time; it took more effort to open them than he cared to make at the moment.

</p><p>Fortunately, the fourth and last surgery <i>had</i> reduced the discomfort in his shoulder, which helped.  Hopefully, it had also improved his range of motion, as Dr. McLemore believed.  John wouldn’t know for sure until his arm was out of the sling.

</p><p>He kept struggling to breathe. <i> What’s wrong with me?</i> he wondered.  <i>Besides the osteomyelitis, that is?  Surely, I’m not coming down with pneumonia!  I didn’t have any trouble breathing when I went to sleep last night!</i>

</p><p>John felt the cooling blanket being drawn back from his feet, and Nurse Jenkin’s cool fingers pressing down on the bottom of his calves and then his ankles.  Furrowing his brow, he forced himself to open his eyes and keep them open so he could watch her.  “Nurse?”

</p><p>Drawing the cooling blanket back over his feet, Nurse Jenkins turned to him, her face serious.  “I’ll be right back, Dr. Watson.”

</p><p>Her shoes clicked rapidly on the floor as she hurried out of the ward for a few moments, during which time, John’s eyes slid back shut; a moment later, he overheard Dr. McLemore being paged over the intercom.  He frowned.  <i>Something’s wrong.  If I could sit up, I’d pull up the cooling blanket and have a look at my legs and feet.</i>

</p><p>Despite his difficulty in staying alert and in breathing, he forced himself to open his eyes and keep them open again.  If another complication had arisen, he wanted Dr. McLemore to tell him what it was, and what he was going to do about it.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins returned to his side and sat back down; a few minutes later, Dr. McLemore came hurrying in and strode towards John’s cot.  “What’s wrong?” he asked the nurse, folding his hands across his chest.

</p><p>With a sombre look on her face, Nurse Jenkins rose to her feet and drew the cooling blanket back again, to uncover John’s feet and calves.  “Feel his legs and his feet, doctor.  And note his respiration.”

</p><p>Nodding, Dr. McLemore bent over and pressed his fingertips against John’s legs and then the tops of his feet, frowning.  “Swollen.  Both of them.  And he’s having difficulty breathing once more.”  He turned to the nurse.  “And his urine output?”

</p><p>“Dropped drastically over the weekend, in spite of all the ice water he’s drunk during that time, and for the past 24 hours, it’s been a darker colour than usual.  And he’s been short of breath since he woke up an hour ago.”

</p><p>John bit his lower lip.  “R—renal failure?” he whispered in between attempts to breathe.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore looked down at him, his face sombre.  “I don’t know yet, but it’s possible.  The problem with the antibiotic I’ve prescribed to fight your bone infection is that acute renal failure is one possible complication.”  He drew the cooling blankets back down over John’s feet.  “I’m afraid it’s going to mean ordering some more tests, John.  I’m going to order a blood test and a urine sample removed from your Foley catheter; if necessary, I will also order a biopsy of your kidneys.  The results I find will determine where we go from here.  Nurse, put him back on oxygen for now.”

</p><p>“Yes, doctor,” the nurse said.  John nodded, still struggling to breath normally, and Nurse Jenkins inserted the oxygen prongs back into his nostrils and turned on the oxygen.  The cool oxygen began to waft into his nostrils and down toward his lungs, and breathing became easier.

</p><p>Several minutes after Dr. McLemore left, a lab technician entered the ward.  She drew some blood from John’s inner arm and withdrew some urine from the catch bag that dangled at the end of his Foley catheter.  As soon as she had left with the blood and urine samples, John’s eyes slid shut, and he drifted off.

</p><p>When he woke up, Dr. McLemore had returned and was standing at his side, his face grave.  “Well, John, it’s just as you and I surmised.  It’s acute renal failure.”  John grimaced.  He had feared as much.  The orthopaedic surgeon inserted his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “And since we <i>don’t</i> want it developing into chronic kidney failure, we’re going to take immediate steps to prevent further complications so that your kidneys will have a chance to heal.”

</p><p>John nodded.  As a fellow doctor, he knew what steps would probably be taken.

</p><p>“The first thing I’m going to do is prescribe for you some minerals to take, starting today.  Some calcium, glucose, or sodium polystyrene sulphonate, possibly all three; we don’t want the potassium building up too high in your blood.”  John shook his head in agreement.  They certainly didn’t.  “If necessary, I will also prescribe medications to control the potassium in your blood, and to bring the calcium in your blood back to a normal level.  Also, I’m going to put you on dialysis, John, until your kidneys are functioning normally once more.”

</p><p>With another grimace, John swore.  He did <i>not</i> relish that prospect one bit.

</p><p>“I know, John,” Dr. McLemore said sympathetically.  “I wouldn’t want to go through that, either, even for a short period.  If all goes as we hope, though, it will only be temporary.”

</p><p>John nodded agreement.  “Let’s hope it <i>is</i> temporary,” he managed to whisper.  Fortunately, because of the oxygen he was on, he was finding it much easier to breathe now.

</p><p>“I agree.  Fortunately, it shouldn’t be necessary to put you back on the ventilator; the oxygen machine will suffice.  For now, since we need to start treatment immediately, I’m going to insert a central venous catheter into your vein below your right collarbone.  That will have to be done in a treatment room, which will be done in minutes, but so you won’t have to keep leaving your cot to have the dialysis done, I’m going to have a portable dialysis machine brought into the ward and set next to your cot, to your left.  It will be used for daily two-hour treatments, to filter your blood.”

</p><p>John nodded agreement again, and the orthopaedic surgeon left the ward.  Several minutes later, the same orderlies who had taken him to the operating theatre before came in with a trolley to take him to the treatment room, where Dr. McLemore and a nurse were waiting for him.

</p><p>“I’m going to give you a local anaesthetic, then insert the catheter,” the orthopaedic surgeon told him; John nodded.  After the sting that the local anaesthetic caused the skin below his collarbone, he and Dr. McLemore waited for his skin to turn numb in that spot.  As soon as it had, while the nurse held John’s sling out of the way, Dr. McLemore spent the next several minutes inserting the catheter into John’s vein below his collarbone, during which time John gazed up at the light blue ceiling and walls.  When Dr. McLemore had finished the job, he taped the catheter in place, and the nurse let go of the sling and stepped back.

</p><p>“As soon as you’re back in your cot, John, I will have the dialysis machine brought to your bedside, and there it will stay until you no longer need it,” he told John.  “You will have your first dialysis treatment immediately, as soon as the machine is in there, and then another treatment every morning for two-hour periods, until they’re no longer needed.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “All right.”  <i>I really hope that soon, they </i>won’t<i> be needed!</i>  He knew that if the kidney failure didn’t resolve itself soon, Dr. McLemore would have to insert a fistula or a graft into his body so that he would have dialysis for a longer term.  He could only hope that neither procedure would be necessary.

</p><p><i>This is </i>some<i> choice!</i> he thought, groaning inwardly and shaking his head.  <i>Either I risk losing my leg or my life or going into chronic kidney failure!  If I </i>don’t<i> take the necessary antibiotics, the bone infection will kill me unless my leg is amputated; if I </i>do<i> take them, I risk losing my kidney function permanently.  That is a terrible choice to be forced to make!</i>

</p><p>Dr. McLemore patted his right shoulder, and John managed to give him a wan smile.  He didn’t envy the orthopaedic surgeon the choices that John’s condition was compelling him to make.  “You’re doing your best,” the injured army doctor whispered.  “Thank you.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded, a sad expression on his face.  “Believe me, John, I wish I could offer you a better set of choices.  This is not an easy thing to face, I know.”  John grimaced.  It sure wasn’t!

</p><p>The orderlies laid him back on the trolley and returned him to the ward, where Nurse Jenkins was waiting; a few minutes later, followed by Dr. McLemore, another orderly moved a portable dialysis machine into the ward and toward John’s cot.  He set it up on the opposite side of the cot from the side where Nurse Jenkins sat, to his left.  Dr. McLemore set up John’s first dialysis treatment and turned on the machine.

</p><p>“In two hours, the machine will be turned off, and it will be left off until tomorrow,” he told John, and scratched his nose.  “You won’t have to do anything; the machine will do all the work.  So, go to sleep if you can.  I’ll be back later to check on you.  If all goes well, it will soon be possible to take you off the oxygen.  You’ll have your second treatment tomorrow morning.”

</p><p>Nodding, John closed his eyes; he could hear Nurse Jenkins taking her seat beside his cot.  He shortly drifted off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(16)</b> 41.1 Centigrade is 105.98 in Fahrenheit.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Family</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Clara pays John a visit, and John starts thinking about his family, Bill Murray, and his late godmother, Mrs. Templeton.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 10, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>4:15 p.m.

</p><p>Day after day passed, and John remained on dialysis.  His fever dropped just a little, from 41.1 to 41.0 (17); only the cooling blanket, the cold packs on his forehead, and the ice water that Nurse Jenkins insisted that he drink every few hours kept his fever from rising back up.  Every day, she injected his antibiotics and morphine into his PICC line, which in turn took them directly into his heart; the morphine eased the severe throbbing in his right leg, and the antibiotics battled the bone infection in that leg.  Thankfully, he no longer needed the morphine for his shoulder.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins also gave him daily doses of sodium polystyrene sulphonate, calcium, and glucose, all of which he managed to take in pill form by mouth while Nurse Jenkins held up his head.  To his relief, after the first two days of treatment, he was able to breathe normally without the oxygen once more, and within the first day, his potassium and calcium levels went back to normal and stayed there, giving him hope that it might soon be possible to take him off of the dialysis.  However, the pins-and-needles sensation never disappeared from his left arm and hand.

</p><p>All that time, Dr. McLemore and Nurse Jenkins were very careful to monitor his dosages of morphine, so that he wouldn’t become addicted to it.  As a result, his times of opiate haze alternated with times when he was more lucid, during which times his right leg would throb non-stop.  At those times, he also felt the residual pain in his left shoulder.  Whenever he was in a haze from the morphine, his leg was free of the severe pain in his leg and the residual pain in his shoulder, and he lay with his eyes closed or half-closed, unable to tell whether it was day or night.

</p><p>In addition, this time, John did not become delirious; however, he was too sick to do anything but lie there and rest.  Not even the prospect of reading, watching telly, or chatting with others enticed him.  Even if he’d been free to use his left arm once more, he wouldn’t have had the energy to do so.  He spent much time floating in an opiate haze; as a result, he was often too out of it to keep track of the time and unable to focus his thoughts on anything.  Whenever his alertness level allowed for it, he would spend some time thinking; when Harry and Clara came to visit, he mustered his strength to chat with them for short periods.  Harry would leave after 10 minutes to go to the loo, but Clara would stay by his side, for which he was grateful.  He was even more grateful that she didn’t expect him to talk when he didn’t feel like it.

</p><p>“It’s very good of you to stay with me, Clara,” he whispered one day, after Harry had left the ward.  “Thank you.”

</p><p>Clara reached over and wrapped her hand around his.  “I’m glad to, John,” she told him.  “And so is Harry.”

</p><p>John rolled his eyes.  “This—this is hard on her—isn’t it?”

</p><p>Clara smiled sadly.  “I’m afraid it is.  It’s not easy for her, you know, seeing her little brother so sick and so hurt.”  John nodded.  Clara had spent much more time at his bedside than his older sister had since he had first been brought to Selly Oak; in fact, she’d become his lifeline.

</p><p><i>I wish Mrs. Templeton was still alive,</i> he thought dully, as memories of his elderly godmother who had lived and died in his former hometown of Chelmsford, Essex, came to mind.  <i>She’d come to visit me, I know, and she’d probably bring me get-well treats.  At times like this, I really miss her.  I miss my mum, too.</i>

</p><p>“Go to sleep if you need to, John,” Clara said softly.  “I’m going to stay till visiting hours are over.”  With a grateful smile, John closed his eyes and soon drifted off.

</p><p>TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>9:00 p.m.

</p><p><i>Wonder how Bill’s doing.</i>

</p><p>The thought had sudden arisen in John’s mind without any warning.

</p><p><i>He’s the one who tended me when I was shot and flew with me to Bastion; I haven’t seen or heard from him since.  No doubt, he’s back to working under Dr. Clancy now.</i>  He bit his lower lip and gazed up at the cream-coloured walls opposite him.  <i>I wonder if another trainee surgeon’s been assigned to work under Dr. Clancy yet?  Or are they waiting for me to recover from my injuries and return to Afghanistan?  And what about Corporal Ryan?  How is he now?  Is he undergoing rehab at Headley Court yet, or is he still in the regular military ward?  Has he been fitted with a prosthesis yet?</i>

</p><p>Another thought rose up in his mind that he would much prefer to leave out.  <i>What if my parents were still alive?  Would Mum come visit me?  Surely, she would, if she could.  I know Mrs. Templeton would, if she were still alive.  I also know that Dad wouldn’t, and I don’t know if Mum </i>could<i> come here unless he drove her.  They only had one car.</i>

</p><p>In spite of his efforts to push all thoughts of his parents, and especially his father, out of his mind, that particular thought sparked a train of other thoughts he would have also preferred to leave out.  <i>Dad wouldn’t have ever approved of my decision to be an army officer.  He didn’t want me to become a doctor; I know he wouldn’t have wanted me becoming a commissioned officer, either.  Becoming a soldier, he probably wouldn’t have objected to, but he would have thought me posh if he knew what I’ve become.  He’d be accusing me of putting on airs.</i>  He grimaced.

</p><p><i>Doesn’t matter; this is what I wanted to do.  At least, Mum would have had no objections to my career choices.  She didn’t object to my becoming a doctor, and I’m sure she wouldn’t have objected to my becoming an army officer, either.  Might have had a problem with my decision to join the army, though.</i>  He sighed.  <i>I wanted to become a doctor, and because I really wanted to become a surgeon, and there were no available surgical training programmes in London, I decided to join the army’s surgical training programme.  I don’t regret doing either one, and I know it hasn’t made me posh.  It certainly hasn’t made me put on airs.  I never really wanted to become a GP, to begin with; I only trained for that because that position had the most openings.  But I much prefer surgery.  Thanks to the training I’ve been receiving from Dr. Clancy, with my surgical skills and my field medicine skills, I’ve been able to save lives.</i>

</p><p>His right calf suddenly started to throb again; he winced in pain, but tried to hide it.  Much as he yearned for relief, he knew that too much morphine would get him hooked, and he had to avoid that.

</p><p>“Dr. Watson?”  The night-time nurse who was assigned to stay with him touched his hand; he opened his eyes and looked at her.  “You are in pain?”

</p><p>Gritting his teeth, John nodded.  “Y—yes.  Sorry, I tried to hide it.  I don’t want the pain, but I don’t want to be addicted to morphine, either.”

</p><p>“I know.”  The nurse rose to her feet.  “I’ll go see if Dr. McLemore has anything besides morphine you can take that won’t carry the risk of addiction.”  She left the ward, and John lay clenching his right fist and trying unsuccessfully to clench his left as he tried to endure the severe throbbing.  Sleep was going to be difficult to come by under the circumstances.  Minutes passed.

</p><p>The nurse returned with a syringe.  “This is a sedative.  It will put you to sleep.”

</p><p>John nodded, and she injected the dose into his PICC line.  At least if he was asleep, he wouldn’t feel the pain, and he would be given another dose of the morphine in the morning.  As the minutes passed, the throbbing became less severe, and sleep soon came over him.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(17)</b> 41.0 Centigrade is 105.8 in Fahrenheit.  Not much of a drop, is it? [wry grin]</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Seizures</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John begins to recover from the osteomyelitis, and Bill Murray pays him a visit.  But once he is well on the road to recovery, another complication arises that could well ruin everything.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 16, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>7:00 a.m.

</p><p>The next morning, when John woke up, he felt better and more alert than he had in days.  His leg didn’t hurt nearly as much as it had unless he was drugged.  And while he still felt the residual pain in his shoulder, it didn’t throb as it had before his third surgery.

</p><p>He looked at the sling his left arm still lay in and then attempted to clench both hands.  He was able to clench his right hand with ease, but to his consternation, his left hand wasn’t very cooperative.  “Surely it’s not paralysed,” he muttered.

</p><p>“No, it’s not, but there is nerve damage.”  Nurse Jenkin’s voice broke in on his thoughts; turning his head, he saw that she was sitting at his side, as usual, and rubbing her fingertips together.  He gave her a wan smile, and she smiled back.  She reached over to feel his forehead, and then she rose to her feet to get the ear thermometer.  For a moment, she inserted it into his ear, and then she looked at the reading.

</p><p>“Your temperature has dropped,” she said, with a broad smile.  “It’s dropped from 41.1 to 39.4. <b>(18)</b>  You’ve still got a fever, but it’s definitely on the wane now.  Your skin is just a little bit cooler now, and not quite so flushed as it was.”

</p><p>An equally broad smile spread across John’s face.  “That’s reassuring,” he said.  “My leg still hurts, but not as badly as it has been.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins laid the thermometer away and sat back down.  “It’s too early to say for sure, but I strongly suspect you’ve turned the tide, Captain Watson.”

</p><p>When Dr. McLemore strode into the ward to check on John, he agreed with the nurse.  “You have definitely turned the tide, John,” he said with a pleased smile.  “Unless you suffer a relapse, I believe you’re going to recover.”

</p><p>John sighed.  “That is such a relief!” he said, his voice still weak.  “For such a long time, I didn’t know if I was going to have to choose between my leg and my life.”  Turning his head, he looked at the dialysis machine.  “What about my kidneys?”

</p><p>“At the moment, it’s too soon to answer that question.  You’re still on the antibiotics, and it’s too soon, just yet, to take you off of them.  We will see how your kidneys fare when that changes.  For now, let’s rejoice that your life is no longer in danger, and that you won’t have to lose your leg to save your life.”

</p><p>John nodded relief, and then glanced down at his left hand.  “When I woke up a little while ago, I clenched both hands.  Tried to, anyway.  I was able to clench my right as easily as always, but my left…”  He grimaced.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “Well, John, as you know, there’s been nerve damage.”  With a reluctant nod, John gazed back up at the orthopaedic surgeon.  “To what extent the damage to your posterior cord will affect the functioning of your left arm and hand, I cannot say.  We’ll just have to wait and see, once you’re well enough to start doing things once more, and once we can take your left arm out of the sling.  First, though, we’ve got to beat back the osteomyelitis and see how your kidneys function after I’ve taken you off the antibiotics.”

</p><p>With a sigh, John nodded.  “True.”  He shook his head.  “It doesn’t help that my left hand just happens to be my dominant hand.”  He smiled wryly and rolled his eyes.  “At least, the insurgent <i>could</i> have been polite enough to aim his gun at my <i>right</i> shoulder, not my left.”

</p><p>“Or else not aim at you at all,” Dr. McLemore said drily.  Rolling his eyes again, John nodded agreement.  Wasn’t <i>that</i> the truth?!  “Well, since your left shoulder did bear the brunt of the damage, we’ll just have to do everything in our power to help you get as much use back out of it as we can.  In the meantime, you rest.  Your temperature has dropped below the danger zone, but you’re still in no shape to do anything but sleep as much as you can.  Exercising your left hand and undergoing rehab will have to wait until you’re stronger.  In fact, I recommend that you wait until your arm can safely be taken out of the sling before you start exercising your hand.  Once you’re well enough, you’ll be transferred to the regular military ward and referred to a regional occupational health team, and rehab will be the next step.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “One question, before you leave,” he said, and then cleared his throat.  “Is Corporal Ryan still here, or has he been transferred to Headley Court?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore inserted his right hand into his lab coat pocket.  “He’s still in the regular military ward for now, undergoing rehab, but he’ll soon be transferred to Headley Court, to learn to walk on a prosthetic leg.”  John smiled, relieved.  He would have liked to see Corporal Ryan once he was well enough to leave ICU, but there was no guarantee of that.

</p><p>Already, the discussion was beginning to tire him out.  Dr. McLemore patted his arm and left the ward.  Relaxing his head on his soft pillow, John closed his eyes and soon drifted off.

</p><p>TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>1:20 p.m.

</p><p>John lay in his hospital cot, reading; with effort, he managed to hold up the small paperback novel that Nurse Jenkins had brought him the day before with his right hand.  Only with great difficulty was he able to turn the pages with his non-dominant hand, since he had to use the same hand to hold it and turn its pages; he always had to lay it on his chest first, before he could turn to the next page, at which point he’d pick it up again.  However, he rejoiced over the fact that he was able to read once more.  Over the past several days, his temperature had dropped steadily, and his alertness had increased, much to his pleasure and to Dr. McLemore’s.  “If this keeps up, John, you won’t be needing the antibiotics much longer,” he’d said the day before.  “Then we can find out if your kidneys are able to regain their function.”

</p><p>John had looked intently at him.  “Let’s hope so!”  His voice was stronger than before.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins and her weekend and night-time colleagues no longer stayed by his side round the clock, but they did come whenever he pushed the call button that was attached to the frame of his hospital cot.  Clara and Harry, both of whom stayed by his side for longer periods than they had before, were thrilled to see him slowly getting his strength back.

</p><p>John laid his book down, its pages face-down on the cot, to rest his right hand for a few moments.  Holding his book up even for short periods tired it.  After all those weeks of doing nothing but lying limply in his cot and sleeping as much as possible, he needed to regain the strength in his limbs.  He knew that would have to wait until he was out of the ICU ward, till his left arm was out of the sling, and until Dr. McLemore gave the orders for physical and occupational therapy, whenever that was.  Hopefully, he would be off the dialysis machine by then.  Maybe if he was lucky, he would see Corporal Ryan when he was moved to the military ward.  Assuming that the corporal was still awaiting transfer to Headley Court.

</p><p><i>If my posterior cord had only been left unaffected, I would have needed just physical therapy for my shoulder,</i> he thought ruefully, as he lay there, looking up at the ceiling.  <i>But because it’s been damaged, I’m going to need both kinds of therapy to recover the use of my arm and hand.  No question but that I’ll get my strength and endurance back, but to what extent will I get back the use of my left arm and my hand?  My dominant arm and hand, at that?</i>

</p><p>He shrugged.  Only time would tell, he knew.  Hopefully, he would get enough of it back that he could resume his surgical training when he returned to Afghanistan.

</p><p>“Hey, Captain Watson!”

</p><p>Startled, John jerked; turning his head, he saw Bill Murray approaching his cot, wearing his uniform.  “Bill!” he exclaimed, as his army nurse quickly schooled his expression to cover up the dismay that had etched his face upon seeing John as he had entered the ward.  “What are you doing here?  And how are Major Clancy and Major Sholto and the others?”

</p><p>Bill took a seat in the chair next to John’s cot.  “They’re all well, I’m glad to say, and we’ve all been keeping track of your progress.  Yours and the other Fusiliers who are still here at Selly Oak.”  He smiled.  “Selly Oak’s been very good about keeping us all posted.  They all told me to send you their good wishes when I told them I was coming here.  I’m on a short leave, and I thought I’d stop by here to see how you and Corporal Ryan and the other Fusiliers who are still here are doing.”

</p><p>John smiled weakly.  “I’m glad you did.  Better than a week ago, I’ll tell you that!  Since coming here, I’ve already had to fight sepsis, osteomyelitis, a brain abscess, acute kidney failure…”  He shook his head.  “And it’s not over yet.  The bad news is, I’m still hooked to that dialysis machine, since my kidneys can’t do their job just now.”  He nodded toward the machine on the other side of his cot.  “It’s the antibiotics Dr. McLemore had to prescribe to fight my osteomyelitis that’s causing the kidney damage; hopefully, it’s temporary.  They’re very poisonous and potent, but they’re needed to beat back the bone infection so I can stay alive without sacrificing my leg.  The good news is the osteomyelitis is on the wane now.  I’m hoping that once I’m off the antibiotics, I will soon be off dialysis as well.  Hopefully, my arm’ll be out of this sling by then, too.”  He glanced down at his left arm as he spoke.

</p><p>“That <i>is</i> good news!  And let’s hope you <i>will</i> soon be off that machine.”  Bill reached over to clasp his right hand, and John squeezed it, and then laid his hand back on the soft mattress.

</p><p>“And I’ve got more good news.  Corporal Ryan’s in the regular military ward, undergoing rehab; when the swelling’s gone down, he’ll be fitted with a prosthetic leg.  He’s getting ready to be transferred to Headley Court.”

</p><p>“I’m so glad to hear that!”  Bill beamed.  “Before I leave, I’ll stop by the military ward to pay him and the other Fusiliers a visit.”

</p><p>“You do that, and give them my best wishes while you’re at it.”  John smiled, and then a shadow came over his face.  “Trouble is, in a way, the full fight is just beginning, as it doesn’t seem to like this.”  He bit his lower lip.  “The battle for my life is finally over, but it’s too soon, yet, to know whether my kidneys will ever regain their normal function.  And my posterior cord was visibly damaged when my shoulder was shattered.  I’ve already discovered that clenching my left hand is not <i>nearly</i> so easy as it used to be, and I don’t like to think what else I’m going to be facing in the near future, or having a hard time doing.”

</p><p>Looking serious, Bill touched his arm.  “I know, captain,” he said softly.  “It’s going to be a long, hard fight to recover, and no mistake.  But you’ve always been a fighter, sir.  I know you’ll fight this, and I know you’ll <i>beat</i> this.”

</p><p>“Yeah.  I’ll try, anyway.”  John nodded agreement, setting his jaw in grim determination.  “I’ll <i>have</i> to.”  He lay there silently for a moment, thinking.  “It could have been so much worse,” he finally said thoughtfully.  “At least, I’m alive; neither the bullet nor the sepsis nor the osteomyelitis killed me, though all three of them did their best to.  I won’t have to give up my leg to stay alive, as it looked for a while as if I might.  And the bullet didn’t penetrate my heart, nor did it plough through any of the nerves in my shoulder; my left arm would have been put out of commission permanently if that had happened.  I’ll still have to have rehab, though, however long that takes.  I’m looking at physical and occupational therapy when that time comes.  There will be a measure of permanent impairment, part of it caused by nerve damage, when the rehab is over; what I don’t yet know is how much impairment.  Among other things, I’ve already got a permanent barometer in my shoulder.”

</p><p>“So I heard, and what you said is true.  All of that is true.”  Bill nodded agreement.  “You’ll be going to Headley Court, too, won’t you, when you’re well enough to leave Selly Oak?”

</p><p>“No doubt.”  John shrugged, and Bill nodded.  John added, “How long I’ll be there is too soon to say.  Hopefully, my kidneys will be back in working order before then.”

</p><p>Bill nodded.  “Well, just do all you can to get your strength and mobility back, <i>and</i> your kidneys back in function, so you can return to duty.  We Fusiliers all miss you at Hamidullah, you know!”

</p><p>John laughed.  He missed his mates, too.  “Don’t worry, I intend to!  I’ve got to beat back this osteomyelitis first, though, and get back my kidney function.  Hopefully, now that the bone infection’s on the wane, the other won’t be long in coming.”  He smiled.  “It helps that Dr. McLemore used to work at the field hospital at Camp Bastion, so he knows what it’s like.  He retired from the army and got a job at Selly Oak a year before I was deployed to Afghanistan.”

</p><p>The army doctor and army nurse spent the next half-hour chatting, with Bill bringing his superior officer up to date on all the recent goings-on at Hamidullah, including how the soldiers who’d been discharged from the field hospital at Camp Bastion and had returned to the FOB were doing, and with John telling him about Harry and Clara’s daily visits.  Finally, seeing that John was getting tired, Murray stood up.

</p><p>“I wish I could come back tomorrow, sir, but I’ve got a couple of half-day meetings to attend in the morning and afternoon, and then, day after, it’s back to Hamidullah.  I’ll have to give Ryan and the others the same message when I see them.  Any messages you want me to pass on, when I go back?”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Yeah.  Just tell them thank you for me, for their well-wishes.”

</p><p>Bill smiled.  “I’ll do that.”  He saluted John and left.  Several minutes later, John frowned as something came back to his memory.

</p><p><i>I wish I’d thought to ask him to send me my </i>Lord of the Rings<i> book I was reading when Dr. Clancy sent us out on that retrieval mission, when he gets back to Hamidullah!  I only got to read the first few chapters in it before I was shot.  I would have liked to have had a chance to finish it.</i>

</p><p>He sighed.  <i>Oh, well.  It’s too late to ask him now, and it would have been too heavy to hold up with one hand while I’m this weak, anyway.  May as well take a nap.  Maybe, if I’m lucky, he’ll send it to me anyway.</i>  Relaxing, John laid his novel on the rolling table by his cot, closed his eyes, and drifted off.

</p><p>4:10 p.m.

</p><p>“Nurse!  Nurse!”

</p><p>Hearing the panic in the soldier’s voice, Nurse Jenkins and another nurse rushed into the ICU ward to find John convulsing.  “He’s having a seizure!” the soldier who lay across the ward from John said, and the other soldiers who were awake agreed.  “He was awake just a few moments ago, and then he just started convulsing!”

</p><p>Gaping at John, the two nurses hurried towards him.  “He certainly is!” Nurse Jenkins agreed.  Turning to the other nurse who had followed her, she ordered, “Page Dr. McLemore, stat!”  Nodding, the other nurse rushed out of the ward.

</p><p>“This should not be happening!” Nurse Jenkins muttered.  “His fever’s been <i>well</i> below the danger zone for several days now!”

</p><p>“What’s happening, nurse?”

</p><p>She whirled around to find Dr. McLemore hurrying into the room.  “Dr. Watson’s having a seizure, doctor!  It’s not a febrile seizure this time, because his fever’s been down for days now.”

</p><p>Nodding, Dr. McLemore hurried towards John’s bedside, his face sombre, and Nurse Jenkins moved out of the way, folding her arms across her chest, her eyes equally sombre.  There was nothing either of them could do but wait it out; the seizure would end shortly.  But this did not bode well for John’s eventual return to active duty, not in the slightest.

</p><p><i>He’s </i>not<i> going to enjoy hearing about this,</i> Dr. McLemore thought, shaking his head and pressing his lips into a thin line.  <i>This could get him discharged from the army permanently!  Especially if he has another such seizure while he’s here.</i>

</p><p>A moment later, the rhythmic convulsions stopped, and John, still unconscious, relaxed.  Dr. McLemore checked his pulse and his heartbeat, and then took his temperature.  “You’re right; it’s <i>not</i> a febrile seizure,” he told Nurse Jenkins.  “His temperature is still down, so it can’t be blamed for the seizure.  The brain abscess he endured early on must have caused this.”  Slipping his hands into his lab coat pockets, he sighed.  “This is not good news.  Even if he does regain his kidney function and most of his arm and hand mobility…”  His voice trailed off, and he shook his head, removing his hands out of his pockets and crossing his arms across his chest.  With a sigh, Nurse Jenkins dropped her hands to her sides.

</p><p>“Let him sleep, but stay with him once more.  Round the clock, till I say otherwise,” he ordered.  “Hopefully, this will be the only seizure, but if there’s another one, send for me immediately.”

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins nodded.  “Yes, doctor.”

</p><p>She sat down next to John, and Dr. McLemore strode out of the ward.  With a sigh, she took John’s right hand and held it gently, and used her other hand to brush her hair out of her face.

</p><p>Minutes later, John began to stir, and a few minutes after that, his eyelids fluttered open.  He blinked for a moment, looking confused, before turning his head to look at Nurse Jenkins, who was still holding his hand.  “What—what happened?  Last thing I remember, I was chatting with Sergeant Jackson.”  He nodded toward the soldier across the ward, who raised a hand in greeting.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins gazed at him, looking serious.  “You had a grand mal seizure, Dr. Watson.”

</p><p>John gaped at her in shock.  “But the fever—it’s—”

</p><p>“I know.”  Nurse Jenkins’s voice was sympathetic.  “It was not a febrile seizure, this time, not as the others were.”  She let go of his hand.  “Would you like me to ask Dr. McLemore to come back in here and fill you in?”

</p><p>Swallowing hard, John nodded and cleared his throat.  “Y—yeah.  Yes, please.”

</p><p>Patting his right hand, Nurse Jenkins rose to her feet and left the ward.  A few minutes later, she returned with Dr. McLemore.  “You’re awake, I see,” he greeted John, as he approached the cot.

</p><p>“Yeah.”  John cleared his throat again.  “Nurse Jenkins told me I had another seizure.  Grand mal.”

</p><p>“That’s right.”  Sitting down in the hardback chair next to John as Nurse Jenkins remained standing, Dr. McLemore looked at him gravely.  “Since your fever has been down for several days as of now, your latest seizure cannot be blamed on that.”

</p><p>John pressed the back of his head hard against the soft pillow and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, taking a deep breath.  “Let me guess—the brain abscess,” he said tightly.  He opened his eyes and looked at the other doctor, bracing himself for the worst.

</p><p>“That’s right.  I’m afraid it is.”  Dr. Jenkins looked at him sadly.  “Let’s hope that this is the only such seizure you will have.  Trouble is, when seizures are caused by a brain abscess, when there’s been one such seizure, there could be more.”

</p><p>“In other words, I’m facing the prospect of epilepsy.”  John nodded, with his lips pressed into a tight line and his right hand clenched into a fist; a few seconds later, he relaxed his hand.  “Will—will you report it to the army?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore looked sombre.  “I’ll have to, John.  You know that.  And the General Medical Council will have to be informed, too, you know.”

</p><p>“Yeah, I do.”  John took another deep breath.  “This—this could well mean the death knell of my army career,” he whispered.  “<i>And</i> my career as a surgeon.”  He closed his eyes and pressed the back of his head against the pillow again, clenching his right fist a second time.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore reached over to wrap his fingers around John’s fist.  “Let’s not jump to the worst-case scenarios just yet, John.  For now, let’s just take it one day at a time.”  Biting his lower lip, John nodded, misery etched on his face.  He opened his eyes and looked at the orthopaedic surgeon, who looked at him sympathetically.  “I wish I could promise you that everything is going to be all right, and that you’ll be as good as new, but as a fellow doctor, you know I cannot make any such promise.  However, I’m not going to predict the worst, either.  For now—and I know this is going to be really tough, John—for now, let’s try not to think about the future or what this could mean, OK?  Let’s just get through today, and concentrate on what you must do, today.  Take it one day at a time, at least for now.”  He gently squeezed John’s fist, and it unclenched and relaxed.

</p><p>Opening his eyes again, John nodded.  “I—I’ll try.”  His voice sounded choked.  He cleared his throat.

</p><p>“I know you will.  And believe me, I know that what I’m asking you to do is not easy, and this is <i>not</i> an easy thing to face.”  Squeezing his hand again, Dr. McLemore rose to his feet.  “Until further notice, Nurse Jenkins is going to remain by your side once more.  Hopefully, there will be no more seizures, but if there are, we’ll deal with them as we must.”  Grimacing, John nodded agreement, and the doctor left the ward.

</p><p>John spent the rest of the day just lying there, making no attempt to read or chat.  That night, some soft popular music began to play in the background over the intercom.  As the sedative that Nurse Jenkins inserted into his PICC took over, he fell asleep.

</p><p>WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>9:15 a.m.

</p><p>At 8:55 a.m., eight days later, John had another grand mal seizure; that time, Nurse Jenkins was there.  As she had done the first time, she sent for Dr. McLemore, who came immediately.  By then, John was off the antibiotics and the morphine, and his left arm was finally out of the sling; Dr. McLemore had removed the PICC line from his heart a few days before.

</p><p>“I’ve got some good news, John: there’s no sign of the <i>Staphylococcus aureus</i> left in your bloodstream,” he had told John at the time.  “While there’s still a little infection in your bone marrow for the moment, that won’t last long now that the bacteria’s gone.  I believe it’s safe to say that your battle with osteomyelitis has been won, although you’ll still have to get your strength and your kidney function back.”

</p><p>John had nodded.  He and Dr. McLemore were hoping that now he was off the antibiotics, his kidneys would soon regain their ability to do their job.  While his temperature was still a little above normal, it was nearing a normal level once more, and the throbbing in his leg had disappeared altogether.  However, there remained a constant residual pain in John’s shoulder which became worse in bad weather, and so Dr. McLemore had prescribed for him an over-the-counter painkiller some days back; it gave his shoulder some relief.  Once John was discharged from Headley Court, he would be able to purchase that painkiller at any pharmacist.  Their discussion had taken place a few days before the second seizure occurred.

</p><p>When John woke up following the seizure and saw Dr. McLemore standing by his bedside, he groaned.  “Let me guess—it happened again.”

</p><p>“Yes, it did, John.  Another grand mal.”  Dr. McLemore nodded.  “I am so sorry, John.  I was like you; I was hoping that your earlier seizure would be the only one.”

</p><p>John nodded, misery on his face.  “I—I suppose I’ll have to go on Dilantin?” he asked in a dull voice.

</p><p>“Not unless they keep recurring.  Let’s wait and see how it goes, first.  We don’t know that this is the beginning of epilepsy; it may be that it’s not.  If this is the last seizure, anticonvulsant medication won’t be necessary.”  John nodded.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore laid a hand on John’s shoulder.  “You should keep in mind that whether you’ll remain in the army or not is not my call to make; it’s up to the Medical Board to recommend discharge, and the Army Personnel Centre to make that decision.  Depending on what the Medical Board recommends, the APC will decide whether or not you can return to active duty, and whether it will be safe to allow you to remain in the army or not.  And whether you can continue being a surgeon will be up to the General Medical Council to decide.  It’s going to be some time before either decision can be made on your career; you’ve got to recover and undergo rehab first.  So, as of this afternoon, now that you’re off the antibiotics, and since your fever has dropped further, you will leave ICU and go to a regular military ward.  Once your fever’s gone, I’ll be referring you to an occupational health team.”

</p><p>John smiled thinly, but there was no smile in his heart.  “At least, there’s <i>some</i> good news.”  He nodded toward the dialysis machine.  “I suppose the machine will be going with me?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore glanced toward it and nodded.  “Yes, and tomorrow, I’m going to leave you off of the machine for the day, to see how your kidneys function.  If I discover that they’re not yet ready to resume their job, I’ll turn it back on and then try again the next day.  Hopefully, I’ll be able to take you off of it altogether soon.”

</p><p>“Let’s hope,” John muttered.  “The prospect of epilepsy is bad enough without chronic kidney failure on top of it.”  Squeezing his shoulder, Dr. McLemore left.

</p><p>John laid his head back on the warm pillow, but the joy he should have felt that he was well enough to leave ICU just wasn’t there.  What was going to become of him if he was medically discharged from the army?  If he couldn’t be a surgeon anymore?  If, Heaven forbid, he couldn’t even be a doctor anymore, period?!  What then?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(18)</b> 39.4 Celsius is the equivalent of 103 Fahrenheit.  Still pretty feverish, but not dangerously so as it was before! =)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Recovery</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John is transferred to the regular military ward, where he makes progress toward recovery; he’s soon ready to begin rehabilitation.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 30, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>2:00 p.m.

</p><p>That afternoon, since John was still too weak to sit up, let alone walk, he was lifted onto a trolley and wheeled down the hall and up the lift to the regular military ward, where a cot was waiting for him; in the process, Nurse Jenkins manoeuvred the portable dialysis machine alongside the trolley towards that ward.  Upon their arrival, the orderlies lifted him onto the cot and spread the soft bed covers over him, and the nurse set the dialysis to the left of his new hospital cot.  Since, by then, the dialysis had already flushed out his bloodstream for the day, it was left off.

</p><p>Nurse Jenkins smiled at him.  “I’ve got to return downstairs,” she told him.  “There’ll be nurses here who will see to your needs, Dr. Watson.”

</p><p>John nodded and smiled wanly.  “You’ve been very kind to me, Nurse Jenkins.  Thank you.”

</p><p>She touched his arm.  “It’s been my pleasure, though I would have preferred better circumstances.”

</p><p>Rolling his eyes, John snorted.  “You and me both.”  Nodding agreement, Nurse Jenkins brushed John’s hair out of his eyes and left the ward.

</p><p>John lay on his backside and scanned the ward.  A few of the cots were empty, and some of the soldiers were asleep in their cots.  None of them were his Fusilier mates; he noticed; they must have either already been transferred to Headley Court or discharged altogether.  One of the soldiers was sitting in a chair next to his bedside, reading a hardback book; apparently, he was convalescing.  He was probably almost ready for his transfer to Headley Court.  The soldier glanced up to nod a greeting at John, who smiled and nodded back, and then he returned his attention to his book.

</p><p>“Hello,” one of the other soldiers told him.  His cot stood directly across the ward from John’s.  “I’m Lieutenant Carl Tomlinson of the Parachute Regiment.”

</p><p>John raised a hand in greeting.  “Captain John Watson, MBBS, army doctor, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.  Combat surgeon in training.  I just got out of ICU.”

</p><p>“What happened?” the lieutenant asked curiously.  “Gunshot wound?  Mortar?  Grenade?  I’m guessing you weren’t hurt by an IED.”

</p><p>“No, I wasn’t.  It was a gunshot wound,” John answered.  “I was shot by an insurgent while tending a patient on a retrieval mission near the end of July.”  Lieutenant Tomlinson nodded.  “And you?”

</p><p>The lieutenant grimaced.  “Bloody hand grenade, a month ago during a skirmish with some insurgents.  Thrown at us by a member of the Taliban.  Killed several of my mates and injured the rest of us.”  He shook his head.  “I was lucky to escape with my life.”

</p><p>“We both were,” John agreed.  “I was hit in the shoulder, but it’s not hard to guess the insurgent was aiming for my heart.”

</p><p>“I’m sure.  I only got out of ICU myself last week.”  Tomlinson peered at John.  “Come to think of it, I remember seeing you there.  I was near the other end of the ward, so you probably didn’t see me.”

</p><p>“I was in no shape to take notice of anybody,” John said.  “First, I was battling sepsis, and then I was forced to fight off osteomyelitis.  I had to be operated on, to be purged of a bloody brain abscess, while I was at it.  I’m only now in the process of recovering from the bone infection.”  He gave the lieutenant an easy smile.  “If I were strong enough to get on my feet, I’d shake your hand.  Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant Tomlinson.”

</p><p>“And you, Captain Watson.”  Carl raised his own hand in greeting.

</p><p>John raised his head and scanned the soldiers’ faces in the ward.  “Is—is there a Corporal Ryan here?”

</p><p>“He was transferred to Headley Court a few days ago.  His cot was right next to mine while were in ICU,” Carl said.  “You know him?”

</p><p>John nodded.  “He’s a Fusilier.  My nurse and I were in the process of treating his leg during the retrieval mission, when I got shot.  A bloody IED had just torn his leg apart.”  With a sigh, John flopped his head back down on his pillow.  “If you’ll excuse me, the trip up here’s tired me out.  I think I’ll take a nap before I do anything else.”

</p><p>“Same here.”  Lieutenant Tomlinson laid his head back on his pillow and closed his eyes, and John did the same.  Shortly, he drifted off.

</p><p>When he woke up, the late-afternoon sunlight was pouring in through the windows, and it was time for dinner; nurse’s aides were bringing in meals on trays.  John smiled, but he didn’t feel especially eager to eat.  He’d had no appetite since he’d been shot, and even with a healthy appetite, hospital food didn’t taste all that appealing, anyway.  Still, he’d try to eat some of it.  There was a dull throb in his shoulder; it was time for him to take his non-prescription painkiller.  He would ask for some when the next nurse came into the ward.

</p><p>One of the nurse’s aides laid a tray on the rolling table next to John’s cot and slid it over his chest; pushing the button, he folded his cot higher into a tilting position.  “Thank you,” he told the aide, who nodded, smiled, and left the ward.

</p><p>As John had feared, he was unable to eat more than a few bites.  Even though it was cottage pie, it just didn’t taste good, and neither did the green beans.  Only the jam roly-poly tasted good; he was able to eat half of it, and to drink the entire glass of orange juice.  When he had finished, he pushed the table away and manoeuvred his cot back into a flat position.

</p><p>The physical condition that he was in was certainly affecting his appetite, as he well knew, but he felt sure that part of the problem was that he was so fearful of the future.  Of <i>his</i> future.  Facing the very real prospect that he would have to leave the army for good, <i>and</i> give up his career as a surgeon and possibly as a doctor, was frightening, to say the least.  He loved being a doctor, and he loved being a surgeon and a soldier; although he hated the losses and hated seeing people suffer, he loved being able to save lives and relieve his patients’ suffering.  He took deep, measured breaths in an effect to soothe his anxiety.

</p><p><i>There’s nothing I can do about that,</i> he told himself firmly.  <i>It’s out of my hands.  The only thing I </i>can<i> do is do everything I can, to get well; that’s the only thing I’ve got any control of.</i>

</p><p>Folding his arms upward, John started to slowly press the fingertips of his left hand with the thumb on his right, hoping against hope that just maybe, his left fingertips would feel it.  None of them could quite feel his thumb; they were all sort of numb and tingly.  Next, he pressed his right index finger against his left palm; it, too, was sort of numb and tingly.  So was the back of his left hand, as he discovered.  With a sigh, he dropped his hands on the cot.

</p><p>With a sigh, and in an effort to take his mind off things, he picked up the paperback novel he’d been reading that Nurse Jenkins had brought up and left on the rolling table by his bedside that morning and, with difficulty, managed to open it to the page where he had left off earlier.  Perhaps, by reading, he could forget his troubles, if only for a little while.

</p><p><i>Wish I still had that Tolkien book,</i> he thought, a few minutes later.  <i>I left it back in my officer's quarters, on my nightstand, and it hasn’t been brought to me.  If only I’d remembered in time, I’d have asked Bill to send it to me when he returns to Afghanistan.  I would have loved to find out how things turned out for the hobbits.  As big and heavy as that book is, though, it would have been hard to hold one-handed.</i>  He shrugged.  <i>Oh, well, this one will have to do.</i>

</p><p>He turned his attention back to the book.  The air conditioner had been turned off, so the only background noises were the sounds of soldiers chatting, nurses paging doctors over the intercom, and the treads of people walking up and down the hall outside the ward, some of whom were speaking in low voices.

</p><p>John spent the rest of the day resting in his new hospital cot, alternately reading, sleeping, and chatting with the other soldiers.  Several times, he intently touched the fingertips of his left hand with the fingertips on his right, hoping each time that just maybe, his left fingertips would feel them this time.  Twice, he also pressed against his left palm and the back of his left hand with his right index finger, with the same results.  Each time, none of the fingers of his left hand could quite feel his thumb, and neither could the rest of his hand.  Soon after dinner, a nurse gave him a dose of his over-the-counter painkiller, which brought his shoulder some relief.  At one point, Clara and Harry came to see him.  At bedtime, a nurse gave him a sedative, and he fell asleep in a few minutes.

</p><p>THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>Early the following afternoon, Dr. McLemore strode into the military ward; an hour earlier, a lab technician had drawn some blood out of John’s arm.  The orthopaedic surgeon smiled broadly as he approached the injured doctor’s cot.

</p><p>“Well, I’ve got some good news!”  He sat down by John’s bedside and crossed his legs.  “I just had a look at your potassium and calcium levels, and so far, they’re normal, even though you haven’t used the machine yet today.  And there’s more good news.  There’s still no trace of the bacteria left in your bloodstream, the infection’s almost completely gone from your bone marrow, and your temperature’s back to normal.”

</p><p>John smiled.  “That <i>is</i> good news.  All of it.”  He paused, glancing at the dialysis machine.  “What now?”

</p><p>“For now,” the other doctor said, “we’ll continue leaving you off of the machine, but we are going to monitor your condition very carefully, to see if your kidneys are doing their job of flushing out your blood.  If they start to fail again, we will use the machine once more.  Otherwise, if they’re still functioning normally a few days from now, I’ll remove the catheter and take you off of the machine altogether.”

</p><p>John crossed the fingers of his right hand and held it up, and then he started slowly pressing the fingertips of his left hand with the thumb on his right.  He kept pressing them several times.  None of them could quite feel his thumb; they were all still tingly and sort of numb.  “Let’s hope that’s the case!”

</p><p>“Agreed!”  Dr. McLemore nodded.  “I will also have a look at your shoulder while I’m at it, to see how much it’s healed.  You no longer need the sling, and it should be possible to remove the bandage anytime now; once it’s off, I’ll refer you to an occupational health team who will start planning your rehabilitation.  That will consist of physical and occupational therapy.  Hopefully, you’ll be off the dialysis altogether by then.”

</p><p>John nodded agreement.  He could only hope.  Maybe, if he was lucky, feeling would be restored to his left hand by then, too.  He dropped his hands on the cot.  “Where will I go, for that?”

</p><p>“Well, you’ll start your rehab here,” Dr. McLemore said, “and then, once you’re ready, we’ll transfer you to Headley Court to finish it there.”  John nodded.  That was what he had expected.

</p><p>Taking a deep breath, he bit his lower lip and cleared his throat.  “A—and then?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore’s face turned serious, yet compassionate.  “And then, you face whatever you must, when that time comes.  You won’t be forced to face it alone, John, whatever the Medical Board recommends, and whatever the Army Personnel Centre—<i>and</i> the General Medical Council—decide.  If you <i>are</i> discharged, you will have the assistance of rehabilitation and support services to help you through the change from army doctor to civilian.  At least it’ll be an honourable discharge, which will help.”

</p><p>John nodded.  Dr. McLemore was right.  “Right now,” the orthopaedic surgeon said, “as I said before, let’s take it one day at a time.  For now, let’s concentrate on making sure your kidneys work once more, and on seeing your shoulder recovered from those fractures.  Afterwards, we’ll take it from there.  Meanwhile…”  He looked down at John’s left hand.  “…I noticed that you kept pressing your left fingertips a few minutes ago.”

</p><p>“Yeah.”  John grimaced.  “My left hand’s tingly and sort of numb.  I can’t—I can’t quite feel my—my fingers when I touch them.  My fingertips.  Nor can my left palm or the back of my left hand feel my right index finger pressing down on them.”  He held up his left hand as he spoke and scowled.  “It’s because of the damage to my posterior cord, isn’t it?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore looked serious.  “I’m afraid it is, John.  Whether you’ll ever get feeling back in your left hand, I don’t know.  But don’t give up hope.  Even if you don’t, you can still learn to compensate for the damage to your arm and shoulder.  The therapists at Headley Court will teach you how.”  John nodded, and the orthopaedic surgeon rose to his feet and turned to leave the military ward.

</p><p>John cleared his throat.  “Before you leave this ward, Dr. McLemore, I want to thank you.”  Dr. McLemore turned back towards the cot.  “For keeping me alive and saving my leg; for a while there, it really looked as if I was going to have to sacrifice it to save my life.”  He grimaced.  “Also, you kept me from getting hooked on the morphine.  I know that was no easy task, monitoring my doses to keep me from becoming addicted, while at the same time preventing the pain in my leg and shoulder from becoming unbearable.  As bad as the throbbing was while it lasted, morphine withdrawal would have been a lot worse.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore smiled.  “It certainly <i>would</i> have been, wouldn’t it?  I wasn’t about to let you become a morphine addict or let the pain become unbearable if I could help it.  And it was my pleasure.  As a fellow doctor, you know the feeling when you’ve been able to save a patient’s life and restore him to function.”  Smiling weakly, John nodded agreement.  He certainly did.  “I’ll see you later, John.”  Patting his arm, Dr. McLemore left, and John picked up his paperback book to resume reading it.

</p><p>MONDAY, OCTOBER 5, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>5:30 p.m.

</p><p>To John’s relief, his kidneys continued to function; when his calcium and potassium levels were checked late Monday afternoon, they were still normal, so Dr. McLemore finally removed the catheter hooking John to the dialysis machine and had the machine removed from the military ward.  He then unwrapped the bandage from John’s shoulder and examined it gently and carefully.

</p><p>“I’m afraid, John, that you’re not going to be able to regain full function in this shoulder.  But you already know that,” he told the army doctor; grimacing, John nodded.  “Even without the nerve damage causing the numbness and the impairment of hand mobility and dexterity, there would still be some impairment to your ability to use your arm, and from now on, as you already know, you will have a portable barometer as well.  You will need to continue to take the non-prescription painkiller to relieve the pain in your shoulder even after you’re released from Headley; any Boots pharmacy will sell it.  As soon as I return to my office, I’ll refer you to an occupational health team, and starting tomorrow morning, you’re going to undergo physical and occupational therapy on a daily basis.”  Dr. McLemore inserted his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “We don’t yet know how much function you’re going to regain in your arm and hand, but you <i>will</i> regain at least some of it, maybe even most of it.  Maybe you’ll also regain full feeling in your hand; we’ll have to wait and see how that goes.  It’s going to be hard work, though; make no mistake about that.  You’ve also got to regain your strength, and that’s going to be hard work, too.  Quite rigorous, in fact.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “I know.  I’ve got my work cut out for me, regaining my strength and hand mobility.  Starting with sitting up unassisted and just standing on my own two feet once more.  Well, I’m ready to begin.”  A mirthless smile spread across his face.  “At least I’ve had no more seizures since last Wednesday, so hopefully, I don’t have to worry about epilepsy now.  Maybe, if I’m lucky, the occupational health team and Army Personnel Centre, <i>and</i> the GMC, will take that into account in making their decisions.”  He sighed.  “So, then, when do I start?”

</p><p>“Tomorrow morning,” Dr. McLemore told him.  “For today, since it’s late afternoon now, you remain in your cot.  In the morning, after breakfast, a physical therapist will come here to administer your first exercises.”

</p><p>John smiled wryly.  “That’ll have to consist of standing up, I suspect.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded agreement and rubbed his nose.  “Sitting up in your cot unassisted, to be more precise, and then standing up and walking, in that order.  You’ve been off your feet and lying on your back so long that your leg and back muscles are probably atrophied, so they’re going to have to regain their strength so they can hold you up once more.  Once you can once again sit up on your own as you used to, the next step will be to regain the ability to stand and walk, in that order; your leg muscles will have to regain the strength to support your body.  The physical therapist will also assign you exercises to strengthen the muscles in your left shoulder and arm, so be forewarned: you’ll have to be prepared to take a dose of your painkiller at the end of each P.T. session.  And while you’re at it, the occupational therapist will be working with you every day, to regain the ability to use your arm and your hand.”

</p><p>He rose to his feet.  “Rest for now, John.  Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”  John nodded, and the other doctor left the ward.  John laid his head on the soft pillow and closed his eyes.  He was ready for a nap.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Rehabilitation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John embarks on his first day of rehabilitation.  In the process, he discovers that regaining his strength, and his hand mobility and dexterity, will be no easy task.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>TUESDAY, OCTOBER 6, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>9:00 a.m.

</p><p>“Good morning, Captain Watson.”  A brown-haired woman John had never seen before, and who had just entered the ward, approached his bedside.  “I’m Lydia Taylor; I’m your physical therapist.”

</p><p>John smiled.  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Taylor, and please call me John.  Sorry I can’t shake hands with you properly.”

</p><p>Lydia laughed.  “That’s quite all right, John; we’ve already met properly.  You can call me Lydia.  Now, you’ve been lying in bed ever since near the end of July, I understand.”

</p><p>“That’s right.”  John grimaced.  “Ever since I was shot on a retrieval mission on the 27th.  Since then, I’ve battled one complication after another, and that’s kept me in bed much longer than I would have been, otherwise.  I was removed from ICU last Wednesday.”

</p><p>“I know.”  Lydia nodded.  “Well, as of now, you’re well enough to start rehab, so you’ve been assigned to an occupational health team, of which I am a member.  Your occupational therapist and I are going to work with you to help you regain your strength, adapt to your injuries, and regain to the fullest extent possible the use of your left arm and hand and—if at all possible—adapt your job to suit your current ability to function.  As soon as you’re well enough, you’ll be taught to perform your tasks with your right hand.  I know you’re left-handed, so that’s going to be tough to manage; the good news is, we’re hopeful that’ll only be temporary.”  Grimacing, John nodded agreement.

</p><p>“First, though, during this session, we’re going to start with sitting up in your cot, and with exercises for your injured shoulder.  Since you’ve been lying in your cot with it tilted much of the time, faintness shouldn’t much of be a problem, but if it is, we’ll gradually re-accustom you to sitting up as you used to.”  John nodded.

</p><p>“All right, then, I’m going to slide my arm behind your back and—slowly—lift you up into a sitting position.  You let me know if you start to get dizzy and feel faint, all right?”

</p><p>John cleared his throat.  “Yes.”

</p><p>Lydia slipped her right hand underneath John’s upper back and her left hand over his chest.  Slowly, as she’d said, she began to lift his upper body above the cot’s surface.  At first, John felt nothing, but as he approached a sitting position, he began to feel dizzy and nauseous, and the room became dark.

</p><p>“That’s enough!  I can’t sit up any higher,” he cried out, shaking his head violently in an effort to shake the feeling of dizziness and faintness out of his head.

</p><p>“That’s all right.  I knew this might be an issue; that’s why I lifted you up slowly.  Fortunately, you were able to approach a sitting position before the faintness set in, so this won’t be a problem for long.”  She laid him back down, and he breathed a sigh of relief as the faintness dissipated.

</p><p>“As soon as you’re able to sit up straight without feeling dizzy and faint, I will work with you to regain the strength you need to sit up on your own.  Once you can do that, we’ll progress to standing, and then to walking.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “And running?”

</p><p>Lydia laughed.  “Once you’re strong enough to walk, John, you’ll be able to build your strength up for running with no trouble.  Fortunately, you’ve suffered no paralysis and no physical impairment to either of your legs, so you won’t have any difficulty regaining your ambulation; it’s your left arm and hand that really need the work.  For now, let’s focus on sitting.”  John nodded agreement.  “All right, then, let’s do it again.  Four more times, and then it’s time for your shoulder exercises.”

</p><p>And she did; by the time she laid John back down for the last time, he was lying limply on the mattress, panting and exhausted.  “Whoever thought being lifted up and down could be as tiring as running?” he groaned, between pants.  “You were doing all the work!”

</p><p>“True, but you were still using some muscles while I was lifting you,” Lydia pointed out.  “Muscles you haven’t had the strength to use since you were shot.”

</p><p>Grimacing, John lay limply for a long moment, waiting to catch his breath.  When he could breathe without panting, he said, “Well, since I’m a licenced GP and a combat surgeon in training, not a physical therapist, I’ll just have to take your word for it.”

</p><p>Lydia patted his arm.  “All right, John, now it’s time to start exercising your left shoulder.  Since there are pins, screws, and a fixation plate in there, and since your posterior cord’s been damaged, there’s only so much improvement you’ll be able to experience by the time you’re finished with rehab, but you <i>will</i> improve; have no doubts about that.  Since you can’t get out of bed just yet, some of the shoulder exercises you need to do will have to wait until you can stand up once more, but there’s a few you can do right here in your cot.  For starters, I want you to lay both arms on your thighs and relax them.”  John did as he was told.

</p><p>“Now, then, without lifting your arms, I want you to clasp your hands together.”  Slowly, without lifting his hands off his thighs, John brought them towards each other and tried to clasp them as instructed; he was able to clasp his left hand with his right with ease, but he was unable to use his left hand to clasp his right.  “Now, then—gently—raise both arms straight out in front of you.  Make sure they’re perpendicular to your torso.”  Gritting his teeth, John obeyed, until they were straight ahead from his face, at eye level.

</p><p>“All right, John, if you can, I want you to slowly raise them further, until they’re straight above your head.  If you can’t, then raise them as close to that point as your shoulder will allow.  Keep your elbows as straight as you can, while you’re raising them.”

</p><p>John nodded.  Taking a deep breath, and then while still clasping his left hand with his right and keeping his arms straight, he slowly raised his hands as high as he could.  He was unable to raise them above his head, though; intense pain shot through his left shoulder before he was able to reach that point, and with a hiss, he dropped his left arm and reached for his hurting shoulder with his right hand to clutch it.

</p><p>“Sorry,” he said through gritted teeth, wincing in pain.  “That’s as high as I can manage.  Any higher hurts too much.”

</p><p>“That’s all right, John.”  Lydia gently massaged his shoulder until the pain subsided.  “Now, then, straighten your arms again, clasp your hands together in front of your face once more, and bring them both back down.  Keep your elbows straight while you’re doing so.”  Letting go of his shoulder, John did as he was told, lifting his left arm off the mattress and clasping his left hand with his right, while keeping both hands at eye level.  At that point, he slowly lowered his hands back onto the place between his thighs, being careful to keep his arms straight in the process.  “Now, then, I want you to perform the same exercise four more times, but this time, stop before you reach the point where your left shoulder hurts.”

</p><p>Nodding, John performed that exercise four more times, very careful to stop before his arms were high enough to cause pain to his left shoulder.  At no time was he able to clasp his right hand with his left, try as he did; he could only clasp his left hand with his right.  When he had finished the exercise for the last time, he was exhausted, and his left shoulder was throbbing.  He dropped his hands onto the mattress.  “Sorry, I can’t clasp my right hand with my left.  It just won’t cooperate,” he muttered.

</p><p>“That’s all right, John.  You tried—that was the important thing—and you did a good job, even so,” Lydia said, smiling.  “Your shoulder hurts, doesn’t it?”  Biting his lower lip, John nodded.  She shook a dose of the non-prescription painkiller out of the bottle and gave it to John, who carefully took it with his right hand and put it in his mouth; as soon as she handed him a glass of water, he washed the dose down with his right hand.  “Now, then, we’ll quit for the day and perform these exercises again tomorrow.  I’ll have an additional shoulder exercise for you to perform in bed then.  Once you can sit straight up without the danger of fainting, the real work begins.”

</p><p>John nodded again, and she left.  The throbbing in his shoulder soon subsided.  Exhausted from the physical therapy session, he closed his eyes and soon drifted off.  The heater hummed in the background as he went to sleep.

</p><p>That afternoon, the occupational therapist, Barney Jones, came into the ward to give John his first session in occupational therapy.  “My job is to help you regain function in your left arm—mainly, your hand,” he explained, after they had introduced themselves to each other; John nodded.  “Miss Taylor’s in charge of the physical therapy, and she’ll be working with you to help you get back your strength, your mobility, and your main function in your left shoulder and arm, but I’ll be working with you to help you regain your hand mobility and dexterity.  For the time being, I will also teach you to perform your tasks with your right hand until you can use your left hand to perform them once more.  Now, then, for starters, make an effort to clench your left fist for me, would you?”

</p><p>John nodded, and then grimaced; try as he did, he was unable to clench his left fist.  In fact, he couldn’t even flex his left fingers, as he quickly discovered, to his chagrin.  “This didn’t used to be a problem,” he said, glaring down at his left hand.

</p><p>“I don’t doubt it,” Barney said, smiling wryly.  “The fact that it is now means we’ve got work to do, so that you’ll be able to use your left hand as you used to.”

</p><p>“I hope so,” John said dryly, “especially since I’m left-handed.”

</p><p>Barney nodded.  “All the more reason, then, to work very hard to restore your hand mobility and dexterity, isn’t it?”  John nodded agreement.  “Now, then, with that said, let’s get started.  The first order of business is to restore your left hand to full strength and endurance; you’ll need that, to be able to perform the mobility exercises I and the occupational therapist at Headley Court will be assigning you.”  He took a small red rubber therapy ball out of his right trousers pocket and placed it on the cot next to John’s left hand.  “Now, then, I want you to place your left fingers over this ball and squeeze it.  Use your right hand to place them on the ball if you have to.  Once you’ve got your fingers wrapped around the ball, squeeze it with your fingers and thumb as hard as you can.  Then hold it for a few seconds and release it.”

</p><p>Gritting his teeth, John worked arduously to get the muscles in his left hand’s fingers and thumb to cooperate; finding that he was unable to do so, he set the therapy ball in his left hand with his right and then used his right hand to wrap his left hand’s fingers and thumb around the ball’s firm, smooth rubber surface.  After removing his right hand, he arduously, and at a snail’s pace, just barely managed to grasp the ball with his fingers and thumb only a little, and then, with equal effort, he managed to squeeze it very gently.  At that point, he held the therapy ball for a few seconds, and then dropped the ball on the cot mattress and laid his hand down.

</p><p>“Sorry, that’s the best I can do,” he said apologetically.  “I just can’t squeeze it any harder.”

</p><p>“It’s a start,” Barney assured him.  “With daily exercise, your left hand will regain its muscle tone, and once you’ve done that, you’ll be ready for the other hand exercises you’ll be assigned to perform.  Right now, I want you to do it again.  I know it’s exhausting for your hand, Captain Watson, but it’s necessary.”

</p><p>Nodding and using his right hand to wrap his left hand’s fingers and thumbs around the therapy ball again, John put forth the same arduous effort to grasp it, squeeze it just a little, and hold it for a few seconds a second time.  Barney nodded toward his left hand.  “Again.”  John did it once again.

</p><p>“Two more times, Captain Watson.  I want you to do this just two more times.”  Nodding with grim determination, John just barely managed to squeeze the ball very gently and hold it a few seconds two more times.  While he was not able to take hold of it with his left hand without wrapping his fingers and thumb around it with his right hand or hold it firmly, even at the end of the exercise, he did just manage to grasp it and squeeze it very gently, and then hold it a few seconds, every time.

</p><p>When he had finished the exercise for the last time, he rubbed the fingers of his right hand over the back of his left and then started pressing down on his left hand’s fingertips with his right thumb.  “My left hand’s sort of numb, Barney, numb and tingly.  Every time I rub it with my right hand or press down on my fingertips with my right thumb, my hand can’t quite feel my other hand touching it.  And my left hand won’t cooperate with my orders, as you can see.”

</p><p>“Yes, I can.  But you know, that’s a good sign, actually,” Barney told him.  “The fact that it’s only your hand that’s giving you this trouble, and not your entire arm—<i>and</i> that your hand is <i>sort</i> of numb, not completely—means there’s still <i>some</i> function in your posterior cord; it’s been damaged, but not destroyed.  If any of the nerves in your shoulder had been severed, it would have been a whole other story.  There would be no feeling and no movement in your arm <i>or</i> hand whatsoever; it would be completely paralyzed.”  John grimaced.  That was certainly true!

</p><p>Barney laid the therapy ball on the rolling table next to John’s cot.  “Here’s your homework, Dr. Watson,” he told the injured doctor.  “I want you to perform this exercise twice more right here in your cot before this day is out.  We’ll perform it again tomorrow afternoon during your next session, and I’ll assign you exercises to strengthen the muscles in both hands.  As soon as your hands are strong enough, we will embark on the mobility and dexterity exercises.”

</p><p>John nodded acquiescence.  “I’ll perform the exercise as you recommended.”

</p><p>“Good.”  Since John’s shoulder was throbbing once again, Barney gave him a dose of his painkiller, and he washed it down with a glass of water.  Barney turned to go.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Watson.”  John raised his left hand in farewell, and Barney left the ward.

</p><p>John sighed as he gazed at the rubber ball.  <i>Well, what did I expect?  I knew it was going to be hard.  I’ll just have to give it all my best effort, so I can function once more.</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Headley</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While John engages in daily rehab in his efforts to prepare for transfer to Headley Court, he begins to endure nightmares about the war and psychosomatic symptoms.  Once he's at Headley, it becomes clear to him that regaining his hand mobility and dexterity will not be at all easy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 7, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>10:00 a.m.

</p><p>The morning after John’s first physical and occupational therapy workouts, a nurse drew some blood out of John’s inner arm, and then Dr. McLemore took him back to the operating theatre to take another biopsy of his bone marrow.  When he woke up from the anaesthesia back in the military ward a few hours later, Dr. McLemore was standing by his cot, his hands inserted into his lab coat pockets and a huge smile on his face.

</p><p>“Well, I made sure, and there’s no sign left of the infection in your bone marrow, John.  None whatsoever,” he said.  “And still no trace of the bacteria left in your blood samples, either—just antibodies.  I believe we can safely say that battle is completely behind you now.  You won’t have to worry about the pain in your leg anymore, so while you <i>will</i> need the over-the-counter medicine for your shoulder for the foreseeable future, you won’t need any more of the morphine.”

</p><p>John sighed in relief.  “Thank goodness!  I would hate to have to go back on the antibiotics and morphine—not to mention that bloody dialysis machine!”

</p><p>“That makes both of us!” the orthopaedic surgeon said fervently.  “And since that battle <i>is</i> behind us now, your next job is to get back your strength and mobility, which you’ve already started doing.  That’s going to be your next major battle.  Since you weren’t available for your P.T. exercises this morning, Lydia will be back shortly after lunch to take you through them again, and Barney will take you through your O.T. exercises an hour before dinner.  Let’s get you ready for Headley Court, shall we?”  John nodded with a smile.  Dr. McLemore patted his right shoulder and left.

</p><p>SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>3:00 p.m.

</p><p>For the next week, John worked with Lydia and Barney every day in physical and occupational therapy, an hour per therapy session.  As soon as he was able to sit up without the danger of fainting, Lydia began to assign him exercises in strengthening his back muscles so that he could sit up in his cot on his own; soon, he was able to do so.  When John could sit up unassisted for a full minute, she had him sit on the edge of his hospital cot with his soft slippers on his feet, and then stand next to his cot for 30 seconds before lying back down; during that exercise, he held onto the cot’s headboard so he wouldn’t fall down.  Once he could stand beside the head of his cot for 60 seconds without holding onto the headboard, she began to have him walk short distances.  All the while, she assigned him daily shoulder exercises to get his shoulder muscles back in shape, increasing the number of times that he had to perform them to 10 per exercise.

</p><p>During that same week, Barney assigned John regular exercises with the therapy hand ball to strengthen his hand muscles, and following each daily O.T. session, he performed them twice more on his own, as instructed.  In addition to having John squeeze the hand therapy ball, Barney started assigning him some other exercises to perform with that ball, as well as several other exercises that were designed to improve the strength, the range of motion and flexibility, and the fine-motor coordination in John’s left hand and his left fingers and thumb.  As the days increased, Barney had him gradually increase the number of times he performed each exercise from five to fifteen.  He also commenced teaching John to put on a shirt and his trousers with his right hand.  That was a most difficult task, especially since John wasn’t right-handed.  The first time he put his clothes on, he discovered, to his consternation, that his clothes just hung on him.  He had lost a lot of weight since his injury.  He was much too thin; he was so hollow.  Following each physical and occupational therapy session, he had to take a dose of his non-prescription painkiller to ease the renewed throbbing in his shoulder.

</p><p>Early in that week, John started having terrifying nightmares about the war when he was asleep, and he started experiencing intermittent hand tremors in his left hand.  On Friday morning, while he was trying to eat his breakfast—which he was having to eat with his right hand—his left hand trembled without warning for the first time; to stop the shaking, he stretched out his fingers as far as they would go, and then he tried to clench his hand tightly, several times; laying down the fork, he used his right hand to help his left hand to clench, since it could not yet really clench on its own.  It stopped the shaking, but not the pins-and-needles sensation.  When John stopped clenching his hand, he rubbed his left fingers and pressed his left fingertips with his thumb over and over, and then he finished his breakfast.  The hand tremor occurred several more times that day, and it continued to do so in the days that followed.

</p><p>The Saturday afternoon after John had started his rehab, Clara came to Selly Oak to visit John alone.  She took the chair next to his bed, and he sat up against the headboard.  “Good to see you, but where’s Harry?”  He looked past her toward the ward entrance as he spoke.

</p><p>“Drunk.”  Clara sighed.  “Too drunk to come see you, and I don’t think you’d want to see her if she <i>had</i> come.  Not in her condition.”

</p><p>Grimacing, John shook his head.  “No, I’m afraid you’re right.”  He looked at her and cleared his throat.  “Uh, Clara, I’ve been meaning to ask you.  What kind of shape was she in when the other soldiers and I were first medevacked to Selly Oak?”

</p><p>“The same.  She was drunk that night, too.”  Clara shook her head, her face etched with disapproval.  “Dr. Clancy rang us to let us know you were being brought here, and Harry and I both decided we wanted to be here when you arrived, so I drove us here all the way from London.”  She pressed her lips into a tight line.  “Trouble is, she had already been drinking heavily when we got the phone call.”

</p><p>“Let me guess.”  John shook his head.  “Plastered.”

</p><p>“Yep.”  Clara nodded, pressing her lips into a tight line.  “I had to take the wheel to bring us here since she was too drunk to drive, and she wasn’t much help when you were taken to the ICU ward upon arrival.  We stood against the wall, watching, while they got you and the other soldiers situated in some of the beds.  When you were set up, Dr. McLemore asked us to go with him to his office so he could bring us up to date.  He had some questions he wanted to ask Harry, too.”

</p><p>She paused.  “Once we were in his office, he told us a little about the condition you were in, and what we could expect to happen.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “And how did you and Harry take it?”

</p><p>“Suffice it to say I wasn’t too happy.  I knew you were in good hands, though, so I was hopeful the doctors and nurses here would pull you through.”  An angry expression etched Clara’s face.  “Harry, though—she tried to get the plug pulled on you, John.”

</p><p>“What?!”  Stiffening his back, John gaped at her and clenched his right hand.

</p><p>“Yeah.”  Clara nodded, the hard look on her face.  “She told Dr. McLemore he should just pull the plug on you.  Luckily, he’d received a copy of your will along with your medical records, so he explained to her the physical condition you’d have to be in before he did that.”

</p><p>Shaking his head, John pursed his lips.  “And how did Harry take that?”

</p><p>“She was in no shape to listen to reason.  I didn’t let her start in on him, though.  I got her out of there and took her to the hotel we were staying at, at the time.  Needless to say, the questions he wanted to ask her had to wait.”

</p><p>With a heavy sigh, John looked down at his hands.  “Harry, Harry!”  He shook his head.

</p><p>“I know, John.”  Clara sighed in her turn.  “But what can I say?  She was drunk at the time, and you know how she is, when she’s drunk.”

</p><p>John sighed again.  “True.”  He looked back at Clara.  “Did she attempt to give Dr. McLemore a hard time about that afterwards?”

</p><p>“No.”  Clara shook her head.  “I made sure she was sober every time we came back here after that.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Good.”  He paused.  “I remember once, while I was battling the sepsis, she came by to see me one night.  I was on the ventilator at the time, and I was too weak to even open my eyes.  I heard the nurse telling her that sometimes the strong ones needed permission to let go.  To die.”  He pursed his lips again.  “Well, after the nurse left, Harry acknowledged my suffering and told me what Dr. McLemore and the nurses all thought my chances were at the time.  She told me she was proud of me, and then she told me just the opposite of what the nurse had told her.  Told me she was <i>not</i> giving me permission to die, but wanted me to fight to stay alive.  To hang on with every ounce of stubbornness, she said.”  He rolled his eyes and shook his head.  “That was a <i>far</i> cry from her wanting Dr. McLemore to pull the plug on me when I was first brought here.”

</p><p>Clara smiled.  “It certainly was, and I applaud her for it.  I didn’t want you giving up, either.”

</p><p>John smiled back.  “Of course, it helps that she was sober during that visit.”

</p><p>Clara nodded agreement.  “It sure was.”

</p><p>John’s left hand started to shake, and he stretched out his fingers as far as they would go.  Then he used his right hand to help his left hand to clench.  After a moment, he relaxed both hands.

</p><p>The two of them sat silently for a few minutes, and then Clara rose to her feet.  “I’d better go, John.  I have a meeting to go to this evening, so I’d better leave now.”

</p><p>John raised his left hand.  “I’m glad you came, Clara.  Bye.”  Clara left.

</p><p>MONDAY, OCTOBER 12, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>9:00 a.m.

</p><p>On Monday morning, the second day that John walked as part of his P.T. session, that previous discussion with Dr. McLemore about his leg came back to him with a vengeance.  As soon as he put his full weight on his right leg in preparation to walk, icicle-sharp shards of intense pain shot right through his calf, just below his knee.  Swearing, he took an immediate step back and plopped onto the edge of the cot, clutching his calf and wincing.

</p><p>“That <i>hurt</i>!” he cried out.  “I thought Dr. McLemore said the bone infection was gone!  If it’s gone, why does it hurt me to walk?  I mean, that really <i>hurt</i>!”

</p><p>Lydia winced.  “I wish I knew, John.  That’s something we’ll have to ask him.  After your session, I’ll see if I can find him, so I can tell him what’s happened.”  She gazed down at John’s right leg.  “How did the pain feel when you tried to take that step, and where in your leg did you feel it?”

</p><p>John grimaced.  “Just below my knee, and it felt like—like icicles were shooting right through it.  <i>Sharp</i> icicles, shards of them!  It really hurt.  It started just as soon as I attempted to bear weight on my leg.”  He sighed.  “What can I do, Lydia?  It hurts too much to even stand, let alone walk, and I can’t get my strength back if I can’t walk.”

</p><p>“You just sit here for now.”  Lydia helped him into the hard-backed chair as he took care to keep his right foot off the floor.  “For the rest of this session, we’ll just concentrate on your shoulder exercises.  When we’re done for the day, I’ll page Dr. McLemore and fill him in when I see him.  Hopefully, he can tell us what’s happened and what can be done about it.”

</p><p>John nodded, and under her directions, he spent the rest of the session exercising his left shoulder, after which he took a dose of his over-the-counter painkiller.  Lydia helped him to remove his slippers and back into his cot; instead of lying down, he pushed himself upwards into a sitting position, with his back against the headboard.  Relaxing, John gazed at the fluffy clouds drifting past the windows and then reached for the hardback novel he was currently reading, holding it in his right hand.

</p><p>Minutes after the end of John’s physical therapy session, Dr. McLemore strode into the ward and approached John.  “Lydia paged me.  She tells me your right leg hurt when you tried to walk.”

</p><p>John grimaced.  “When I tried to stand,” he said.  “As soon as I put my full weight on that leg, it hurt.  I mean, it hurt terribly!  The pain was so intense, I just couldn’t bear it.  Walking was out of the question.”

</p><p>“What did the pain feel like?”  Dr. McLemore perched on the chair next to John’s cot.

</p><p>“Like shards of icicles were shooting right through my leg.”  John sighed.  “Sharp icicles.  The pain was really intense.”

</p><p>“And where did your leg hurt?”

</p><p>“My calf.  Just below my knee.”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore nodded.  “That was where you endured the worst of your pain while you were battling the osteomyelitis.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “It shouldn’t be, though.  The bone infection is gone, as you said.  There should be no pain there anymore.”

</p><p>“That’s right.  Now that it <i>is</i> gone, the pain you suffered from it should no longer be there.”  Dr. McLemore rose to his feet.  “John, I’m going to order some tests done, to see if there’s a physical cause for this sudden onset of pain when you try to stand.  I’ll let you know when the first one’s been scheduled; until they’re done, and we know what to do next, your physical therapy will consist solely of your shoulder exercises.  But, John—”  He looked down at the recovering doctor gravely.  “—it may well be that we will not find a physical cause for your new pain.”

</p><p>John winced.  “You mean, it may be psychosomatic?”

</p><p>“If we can’t find a physical reason why your leg hurts when you try to bear weight on it, we’ll have to seriously consider that possibility, yes.  I strongly suspect that among other things, your brain is remembering the pain your leg was in while you were battling the osteomyelitis.”

</p><p>Frowning, John gazed at his left hand.  For some reason, it was trembling again; it was the fourth time it had started shaking that day.  Dr. McLemore noticed and came over.  “I see your hand is shaking.”

</p><p>“Yeah.”  John shook his head.  “It only started doing this on Friday.  It doesn’t shake all the time, but part of the time, it does.  It did it several times that day, without warning—the first time, on Friday morning, while I was having breakfast.  It did it again several times on Saturday, and again yesterday.  And it did it yet again, today, three times before you came in here—the first time, when I was putting my clothes on, and the third time, while I was performing my shoulder exercises.  This is the fourth time.  Don’t know why.”  He grimaced.  “I never know when it’s going to start.”

</p><p>“In other words, it’s intermittent.  And unpredictable.”  Dr. McLemore nodded and scratched his nose.  “While I’m at it, I’ll run some more tests on your hand, just to be on the safe side.  Again, I can’t promise to find anything.  It could be nerve damage, or possibly, it, too, could be psychosomatic.”

</p><p>“What about my shoulder pain?  And the numbness, the pins-and-needles sensation, and the lack of mobility in my hand?” John asked.  “Could they be psychosomatic, too?”

</p><p>Dr. McLemore smiled ruefully.  “I wish they were, John; they could be cured if they were.  Those problems are caused by your shoulder injury.  You’ll be living with those issues for the foreseeable future, I’m afraid.”

</p><p>With a sigh, John leaned back against the headboard.  “Will it ever end?” he muttered.

</p><p>“Eventually,” Dr. McLemore said kindly.  “This is a rough time you’re going through, John, and no mistake.  I hear tell you’ve also started having nightmares when you’re asleep.  Are they about the war?”  Reluctantly, John nodded.  “Well, you know, John, all of us are going to help you through this every step of the way.  This is just another setback, like the sepsis and the osteomyelitis and the brain abscess.  We overcame those, and we’ll overcome this setback, too.”  John smiled wanly, and Dr. McLemore left.

</p><p><i>If it turns out this </i>is<i> psychosomatic, what other such symptoms will I be enduring?</i> he wondered, as he looked down at his right leg and his left hand.  <i>I’m already enduring nightmares!  Am I going to start enduring flashbacks about the war, too?</i>

</p><p>With a sigh, John picked up the novel he was reading from the rolling table, laid it on his lap, and, using his right hand, opened it to where he had left off.  Maybe reading would take his mind off his troubles.  He hoped.

</p><p>TUESDAY, OCTOBER 13, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>7:00 p.m.

</p><p>True to his word, Dr. McLemore scheduled several tests for John, to be completed the following day; to that end, John took the entire day off from his rehab sessions.  He spent much of the day undergoing nerve scans, MRIs, and CAT scans of his right leg and his left shoulder, arm, and hand.

</p><p>That evening, while John was reading his novel with his right hand, the orthopaedic surgeon entered the ward and strode towards his cot.  “Well, John,” he said, taking his seat in the chair next to John’s cot, “I’ve gone over all the tests, and it’s just as I suspected.  There’s no physical cause of your pain that I can find.  As I said yesterday, it could well be that your brain is remembering the pain your leg was in while you were fighting the osteomyelitis.  Also, John…”  He paused, furrowing his brow.  “…the soldier you were treating when you were shot, Corporal Ryan—I know that his right leg was badly torn apart below the knee by that IED.”

</p><p>John furrowed his own brow as he looked back on the day.  “That’s right, it—it was,” he said slowly.  He looked up at Dr. McLemore.  “You think that could have something to do with it?”

</p><p>“I’m not a psychiatrist, so I can’t say for sure.  But it’s possible.  It could be that your brain is remembering the pain you were in for so long, or it could be that your subconscious is remembering what happened to your patient, the day you were shot.  It could even be both.”  The orthopaedic surgeon paused.  “And I can’t find anything causing your hand tremors, either.  Since your hand only shakes part of the time, off and on, I don’t believe the nerve damage is causing that problem.  It’s entirely possible that’s psychosomatic, too.”

</p><p>John pondered the orthopaedic surgeon’s words.  “In other words, if the nerve damage were causing the hand tremors, my hand would be shaking all the time.  Not just off and on.”  Dr. McLemore nodded.  Laying his book on his chest with the pages facing down, John furrowed his brow and bit his lower lip.  “In that case, what now?  I can’t even stand, let alone walk; it hurts too much.  And these hand tremors are going to create a real problem for me even when I’ve regained my hand mobility, if they don’t stop.”

</p><p>“I’ll have a cane brought to you tomorrow.  If you use it to take some of the weight off your leg while you’re undergoing your P.T. exercises, you should be able to resume your walking exercises during your physical therapy sessions.”  John nodded.  Hopefully, he would not need it for long.  Dr. McLemore inserted his hands into his lab coat pockets.  “But I also think it’s time you saw a staff psychotherapist.  You’ll be seeing one as part of your rehab at Headley, anyway; all of the soldiers do.  But in light of what’s happening with your right leg and left hand now, and the nightmares, I think you’d better start seeing one while you’re here, not wait until you’re transferred.  One of the psychotherapists who see the soldiers at Headley is going to come here, starting tomorrow afternoon, following your O.T. session.”

</p><p>With a sigh, John nodded.  He didn’t relish the prospect of having to bare his soul to a therapist or anyone else.

</p><p>“It’s not a sign of weakness to do this, John,” Dr. McLemore said kindly.  “There are times when we all need help from others in dealing with hard things, soldiers included—this is no exception.  There’ve been times when I’ve needed to see one, myself.”

</p><p>John looked at him.  “Seriously?”

</p><p>“Oh, yes.  Don’t forget I used to be in the army, too, Captain Watson.”  Dr. McLemore chuckled.  “I’m not going to go into the specifics of what’s brought that about, but just suffice it to say I’ve felt the need to see one more than once, and let me tell you, the counsellors I’ve seen have helped me greatly.”

</p><p>John nodded, clenching his right fist and pressing it against his side.  “Of course.”  Dr. McLemore patted his shoulder and left the ward.

</p><p>With a sigh, John gazed at his book and rubbed its smooth dust jacket with his right hand’s index finger, but his attention was not on the book’s title or its plot.  Even though he supposedly once more had the use of both hands, he was still forced to use his non-dominant right hand to hold the book <i>and</i> turn the pages.  He pressed his lips into a tight line.  He did <i>not</i> like this one bit! <i> I don’t need help!  I </i>shouldn’t <i>need help!</i>  He was a Watson; Watsons didn’t seek help.  Watsons didn’t admit to weakness.

</p><p>With a sigh, he turned the book right-side up, folded the page that he was reading down, and laid the book on the rolling table next to his cot.  He was in too much turmoil to be able to concentrate on it just now.  He may as well take a nap.  He slid down onto his back and closed his eyes.

</p><p>THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15, 2009: SELLY OAK HOSPITAL

</p><p>4:30 p.m.

</p><p>John lay limply in his cot, underneath the soft covers.  His therapy regime had been rigorous for the past two days.  The day before, Lydia had brought him an aluminium NHS-issued walking cane; since he was currently unable to hold anything with his left hand, he’d been compelled to hold the cane’s handle with his non-dominant right hand.  By leaning on it, he had been able to resume his walking exercises.  As long as he kept his full weight off his right foot, he could manage to maintain his footing and walk.  Without the cane, the pain in his calf was so intense that he was unable to bear any weight on his leg.  As it was, even with the aluminium cane, he was forced to limp and hobble.  But thankfully, with the new cane, he had been able to resume his walking exercises the previous day, as well as his other physical therapy exercises and his occupational therapy exercises.  That morning, during his physical therapy session, John had slowly hobbled to the other end of the ward and back twice.  He had also performed each shoulder exercise 15 times.  Several times during those sessions, his left hand had started shaking, and he’d had to stretch his fingers out and then clench his hand into a tight fist several times in order to stop the tremor, using his right hand to help his left hand do so since he hadn’t yet regained the ability to really clench his left hand independently, after which he had rubbed his fingers and pressed down on his fingertips several times with his thumb before resuming his exercise.  At the end of his P.T. session, he had taken a dose of his non-prescription painkiller to ease the throbbing in his shoulder.  In addition, with much effort, he had managed to put his day clothes on with his right hand, and to eat with it as well.

</p><p>An hour before lunch, John had reluctantly attended his first session with the staff psychotherapist who had come from Headley Court to meet with him at his bedside.  Throughout his therapy session, he had been brief and reticent in his answers; he’d shared only what the therapist had asked him, and no more.  He had remained in control of his emotions from start to finish.  And because John had the ability to read upside-down, he’d managed to decipher the therapist’s posts as he had written them down during John’s initial session with him: <i>‘Moderate-to-severe PTSD presenting as nightmares and through persistent psychosomatic complaints.  Profoundly dissociated and resistant to therapy, yet exceptionally aware of and empathetic to the needs of others.’</i> <b>(19)</b>  John had silently marvelled that the visiting Headley Court psychotherapist was able to gather all of that just from one session with him.

</p><p>And then, after lunch, during his occupational therapy session, he had made a strenuous effort to grab hold of the therapy hand ball with his left hand, squeeze down on its firm rubber surface, and then simply hold it for 60 seconds, cursing when the intermittent tremor had forced him to drop the ball; he had taken a second dose of OTC painkiller when his session was over.  Later during his O.T. session, his left hand had started once again to tremble, at which point he had stretched out his fingers again and then clenched his hand into a fist before resuming his mobility exercise.  In the process, for the first time since his injury, although it had taken much effort to do so, he had finally managed to clench his left hand into a fist without his right hand’s help, a breakthrough over which he and Barney had rejoiced.  Now all he wanted to do was sleep, if he could just avoid the nightmares while doing so.

</p><p>“John?”  John’s eyes shot open, and he turned his head toward the ward entrance.  Dr. McLemore strode into the military ward and approached his cot.  “John!  I’ve just received word from Headley Court.  They’ve got a bed available for you there.  An ambulance will take you to Headley tomorrow morning, after breakfast.”

</p><p>John nodded.  He had known that was coming.  “Hopefully, I’ll get back all my strength and mobility there.”  <i>And hopefully, my limp, hand tremor, and nightmares will all disappear while I’m at it!  I wish my shoulder pain, and the numbness and tingling in my hand, would, too.</i>

</p><p>“Hopefully.”  Dr. McLemore nodded agreement.  Rubbing his nose, he added, “In the morning, when you’ve finished your breakfast, Nurse Jenkins and I will stop by to help you get ready, and we’ll take you downstairs to the ambulance.”

</p><p>John smiled.  “Thank you.  And thanks again for everything you’ve done for me.”

</p><p>“My pleasure.  I hope you’ll come back one day, when your rehabilitation is finished.”  Dr. McLemore smiled back.  “Well, I’ve got some tests to conduct on another patient, so I’ve got to run.  I’ll be back this evening, John.”  John nodded, and the orthopaedic surgeon left.

</p><p>FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16, 2009: HEADLEY COURT REHABILITATION CENTER, BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND

</p><p>8:15 a.m.

</p><p>The next morning, after John had finished his breakfast, Dr. McLemore and Nurse Jenkins entered the ward to help him get ready.  With their aid and with effort, he once again managed to put his clothes on with his right hand.

</p><p>Dr. McLemore and Nurse Jenkins helped him into a wheelchair and rolled him down the hall, down the lift to the ground floor, and down the hall to the emergency entrance, where the ambulance was waiting.  A couple of paramedics stood in front of the ambulance’s back entrance.  To John’s amazement, his suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack all sat by the wall.  Dr. Clancy must have sent his possessions to Selly Oak at some point during his stay there.  <i>Hopefully, I’ll be taking them back with me when I’m done with rehab!</i>

</p><p>“Hello!  You must be Captain John Watson,” one of them greeted him.

</p><p>With a nod, John raised his left hand in greeting.  “Captain John Watson, MBBS, combat surgeon in training.  Afghanistan.  Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

</p><p>The paramedic who had just greeted him nodded.  “We’re here to take you to Headley Court, so you can start your rehabilitation officially.  Hold on while we help you out of this wheelchair and lay you on this trolley.”  John nodded, and they did just that while Nurse Jenkins set John’s bags on the floor of the back of the ambulance.

</p><p>“Hope you come back to see us, Dr. Watson!” Nurse Jenkins said loudly, before the paramedics closed the doors.  Smiling, John raised his left hand to wave good-bye; at least he could do that much with it.  One of the paramedics entered the back of the ambulance to sit with him, and the other climbed into the driver’s seat.  Within seconds, they were on their way.

</p><p>Some minutes later, the ambulance pulled to a stop, and the paramedics opened the back door.  They removed the trolley and helped John out of it and into a wheelchair that waited by the kerb.  A nurse stood behind the wheelchair, waiting to take him inside, and a couple of attendants stood to one side of her.  Harry and Clara stood to the other side.  John smiled at them, and then looked at the tall red brick building looming just behind them.

</p><p>“Thank you,” he told the paramedics, after they had set his bags on the sidewalk next to his wheelchair.  They nodded, climbed into the ambulance, and left.  The attendants picked up John’s suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack and took them inside.  “Hi, Harry, Clara,” John greeted them.  His voice was stronger than it had been just a week before.

</p><p>“Hey, Johnny,” Harry said, and Clara smiled and nodded.

</p><p>John looked around, gazing at the grounds of the facility and the buildings that stood on them.  All of the buildings were made of red brick, he noticed, and the grounds were lovely.

</p><p>“Welcome to Headley Court, Captain Watson,” the nurse greeted him.  “I’m Nurse Aynesworth, and I’m here to take you to your ward.”  John nodded, and she wheeled him inside and up the lift, accompanied by Harry and Clara.

</p><p>As soon as they entered the floor where John would be staying, the nurse took him to the ward where his new cot was, and where his bags had already been set up; they had not been unpacked as yet.  For the next several minutes, John and the other soldiers who were staying in that ward introduced themselves to one another, and John introduced his sister and Clara.  Much to his pleasure, one of them was Corporal Ryan, who was seated in a chair next to his own cot, with a prosthetic leg attached to his stump.

</p><p>“It’s so good to see you again, corporal!” John said, smiling.  “I’m glad to see you’ve made such a good recovery since I last saw you.”

</p><p>Corporal Ryan smiled and pointed down at his prosthesis.  “I’ve been walking more and more with my new leg ever since I was fitted with it.  I’m hoping I’ll soon be able to use it all day.  I’m working to get my full strength back.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “That’s what I’ll be doing, too.  My strength and mobility.”  He held up his left hand as he spoke.

</p><p>Turning to his luggage, he asked his sister and Clara to help him sort through his possessions; both women helped him to open them and put away his clothes.  To John’s disappointment, the novel he’d been reading the day he was shot was not included.  <i>Whoever packed my things must have overlooked it,</i> he thought.  When Harry and Clara left, he lay down to take a nap.  He would unpack and put up the rest of his things later.

</p><p>John was assigned to another occupational health team at Headley.  Therapy began that very day, and it consisted of daily physical and occupational therapy, as well as daily psychotherapy.  That morning, John had his first physical therapy session in the physical therapy room at Headley Court.  Angela Marshall, the physical therapist, started out by taking him through the same shoulder exercises that Lydia had taken him through, and then she had him walk from one end of a set of parallel bars to the other; since he had them to lean on while he walked, he didn’t need his new aluminium cane for those exercises.  By the time his session was over, his shoulder was throbbing, so he took a dose of his non-prescription painkiller.  Likewise, after lunch, in the occupational therapy room, Harris Clarke, the occupational therapist, first took him through his hand-strengthening exercises with a rubber therapy hand ball, a process that took 10 minutes, and then assigned him his first mobility exercise.

</p><p>Harris set out on the table for John 10 wooden blocks during his first O.T. session at Headley Court.  “You’ve been working to regain the ability to clench your left hand and to hold a therapy ball, and you have made breakthroughs in regaining both skills this last week.  Now you must regain the ability to use your hand for various activities, including self-help skills.  This is your first such mobility exercise, Captain Watson, and I should forewarn you: it’s <i>not</i> going to be easy,” he told John.  “I want you to use your left hand to stack as many of these blocks as you can.  With your left hand, I want you to pick up one of the blocks and set it on top of another, and then set another block on top of that one, and so on.”

</p><p>Nodding, John glanced at the clock on the counter.  It was 10 minutes after one.  Gritting his teeth, he just barely managed to grasp one of the blocks with his left hand; once he had pressed his fingertips against its sides, he started to pick it up.  However, before he could begin to move it towards one of the other blocks, his hand started to shake, and the block slipped through his fingers and landed back on the table.  Cursing, he stretched his fingers out as far as they could go and then clenched his hand into a tight ball, which he repeated several times until he was satisfied that the tremor had stopped, at which point he rubbed his fingers and pressed his fingertips several times with his thumb.  Afterwards, he just barely managed to wrap his left fingers around the block again and started to pick it up, only to have it slip out of his hand again.  The same thing happened a third time.  Finally, on the fourth try, he managed to keep it in his left hand just long enough to move it towards the nearest block; however, when he tried to set it on the other block, it slipped through his fingers yet again and landed back on the table.  He swore.

</p><p>“I <i>will</i> stack these two blocks if it’s the last thing I do!” he said through gritted teeth.  Picking that block up in the same way yet again, he slowly and carefully moved it toward the other block and—finally!—managed to set it on the other block.  With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair.  “Who would have thought that simply stacking two blocks would be so bloody hard?”  He shook his head.

</p><p>“It’s going to be hard work, Dr. Watson; make no mistake about that.  Regaining your hand mobility and dexterity is going to be no quick or easy job.  But together, we will work to help you get it back.”  Harris patted his shoulder.  “Now, then, pick up another block and stack it on the other two.”

</p><p>Grimacing, John slowly and carefully managed to take hold of one of the other blocks.  Once again, it took him several tries before he was finally able to move it towards the two stacked blocks; while he was doing so, his shoulder began to throb again, making him wince.  During one of those attempts, his left hand started to tremble again, causing him to drop the block.  He stretched his fingers out, clenched his hand tightly several times, and rubbed his fingertips with his thumb before he tried again.  Very carefully, he managed to pick up the block again and set it on top of the other two, and then leaned back.

</p><p>After repeated attempts to pick up two more blocks and stack them on the others, which he finally managed to do with considerable difficulty, Harris nodded.  “That’s enough for today, Dr. Watson.  You’re off to a good start.”    He gave John a dose of his non-prescription painkiller, and John took it.  “We’ll do this again tomorrow, and in the days to come, I will have other mobility and dexterity exercises for you to perform.”

</p><p>Nodding, John glanced at the clock.  To his shock, it was 3:30; he had been engaged in that mobility exercise for two hours and 20 minutes.  <i>Did it really take </i>that<i> long?!</i>  Shaking his head, he levered himself up onto his feet with his walking cane, and slowly limped towards the wheelchair.  The nurse took him back to the ward, where he plopped down on his cot, exhausted.

</p><p><i>How long is it going to take, to get back to my old self?</i> he wondered.  With a sigh, he bent both arms upward and started pressing down on his left fingertips with his right thumb.  He did that over and over, and then finally dropped both hands back on the cot.  <i>May as well read,</i> he thought, reaching for the novel.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(19)</b> Except for one word that I chose to alter, every word in the therapist’s notes was borrowed from Chapter 1 of BlueSkye12’s unfinished WIP: “Therapy Can Be Very Helpful,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10561454/1/Therapy-Can-Be-Very-Helpful">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011389/chapters/4360950">Archive of Our Own</a>.  I highly recommend that everyone reading this story go to her account on either site and read her story while you’re at it! =)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Discharge</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>While John works very hard to regain his full strength, the full use of his arm, and his hand mobility and dexterity, an important decision is made on his behalf regarding his future in the army and as a surgeon.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The idea that Harry owns and runs her own jewelry shop came from sgam76.  I highly recommend that you check out her stories! =)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>MONDAY, OCTOBER 19, 2009: HEADLEY COURT

</p><p>3:00 p.m.

</p><p>That afternoon, following his occupational therapy session, John finished unpacking his suitcase and duffle bag (he left his army pack alone), and an attendant helped him to put up the rest of his things from those two bags.  He wondered what had happened to his novel, <i>The Lord of the Rings,</i> and why whoever had packed his things had failed to include that book.  His toiletries and his RAMC mug, laptop, and flip phone had been included in his luggage, however, along with his clothes, which Harry and Clara had hung up for him the day before; except for the contents of his army pack, which he intended to leave where they were until his discharge from Headley Court, all that remained was to put away the rest of his possessions.  John smiled wryly.  <i>Everything I own in the world came packed in these three bags!  Well—except the book I was reading, the day I got shot!</i>  He grimaced.  <i>Harry owns more than I do.</i>

</p><p>However, to his consternation, when John started attempting to ring Harry at her jewellery shop, he quickly discovered that his phone had worn out; he guessed that must have happened while he’d been at Selly Oak, since he had last used it the day before that fateful retrieval mission.  He would have to get a new one once he was discharged from Headley Court.

</p><p>He soon settled into his daily routine of physical therapy, occupational therapy, and psychotherapy at Headley Court.  During his daily O.T. exercises, Harris taught him how to perform more of his daily tasks one-handed.  For example, since his left hand was currently out of commission, in addition to putting his clothes on with his right hand, he also had to learn how to make his tea with his right hand only.  None of those tasks was easy, especially since his right hand wasn’t his dominant hand.  But in addition, Harris worked very hard with John to regain the use of his left hand.  After John told him that he used to be able to touch-type quite proficiently before he was shot, and that he would like to know if he could get that skill back, one of the exercises that Harris started assigning him was typing, which he was compelled to do slowly via hunt-and-peck with his index fingers.  To his frustration, try as he did, he could not relearn to touch-type.  All the while, John also continued his walking and shoulder exercises during his daily P.T. exercises.

</p><p>On Angela’s recommendation, in addition to his daily physical and occupational therapy sessions, John had daily workouts in the gym and in the therapeutic pool along with the other soldiers.  Because of his limp, he was unable to perform any jumping jacks or run laps as some of the other soldiers did.  However, in the gym, he lifted weights, hobbled laps around the perimeter while leaning on his cane, and did push-ups and sit-ups; in the pool, he held onto the edge and vigorously kicked his legs in the water directly behind him, and he swam laps from one end to the other.  Slowly, John regained his strength and endurance, and even though he was not able to dispose of the walking cane while he was a patient at Headley Court, he was eventually able to limp with it briskly.  When John wasn’t engaged in his three daily therapy sessions or working out in the gym or therapeutic swimming pool, he spent time reading, watching telly, napping, or socialising with the other soldiers who were undergoing rehabilitation there, all of whose names he had made sure to learn after he had arrived there.

</p><p>His daily psychotherapy sessions didn’t go well.  Because John was stoic and reticent by nature, and because he found it nearly impossible to admit his weaknesses to others, he found it equally impossible to share his feelings with his Headley Court therapist.  Throughout his stay at Headley Court, just as he had done back at Selly Oak, he shared only what the psychotherapist asked him, and no more; he could never gather the courage to share any more with him than that.  And he never lost control of his emotions during his therapy sessions.

</p><p>“You don’t find it easy to share your feelings, do you, Captain Watson?” the psychotherapist asked John one day, four days after his first psychotherapy session back at Selly Oak the week before.

</p><p>John shook his head ruefully.  “No, I don’t.  Sorry.”  He gazed down at his hands for a moment, and then back at the therapist.  “That’s not how I was raised.”

</p><p>“I see.”  The psychotherapist nodded.  “I should like to learn about your family.  Where <i>were</i> you born and raised, and who are your parents?  What do they do for a living?”

</p><p>“I was born at St. Pancreas Hospital in London and raised in Chelmsford, Essex.  My parents were Hamish and Jean Watson.”  John cleared his throat.  “My father was in the Army Reserves when I was born, and he became a factory worker on an assembly line at Britvic not long afterwards.  When I was two, he resigned from the Reserves and continued working at Britvic.  My mother was a stay-at-home housewife.”

</p><p>“And where are they now?”

</p><p>“Dead.”  John paused, remembering.  “My dad drove himself and my mother into a bridge abutment when I was fifteen.”

</p><p>“I see.”  The psychotherapist nodded.  “Did you go into foster care afterwards, or did a relative take you in?”

</p><p>“A relative took me in.”  John cleared his throat.

</p><p>“Which relative?”

</p><p>“My older sister, Harry.”

</p><p>“I see.”  The therapist nodded.  “Tell me a little about her.”

</p><p>“She was in uni at the time, and she returned to Chelmsford and became my guardian while she finished her university studies.”

</p><p>“What university did she attend?”

</p><p>“The University of London.”

</p><p>“Did she finish her studies and graduate?”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Yes.”

</p><p>“What does she do for a living now?”

</p><p>“She owns a jewellery shop in London.”

</p><p>“Do you have any other siblings?”

</p><p>John shook his head.  “Just Harry—her real name’s Harriet.”

</p><p>“Do you have any other relatives?  Where do they live?”

</p><p>“Just one still living.  A cousin.  She lives in north-western England, near the Scottish and Welsh borders.”  John said no more about his family, and the therapist asked him no more.  John wondered if the therapy sessions would do him any good.

</p><p>MONDAY, NOVEMBER 2, 2009: HEADLEY COURT

</p><p>2:00 p.m.

</p><p>John’s physical and occupational therapy sessions were more productive, fortunately, but his progress in them did not come more quickly or easily.  At some point every week during his daily P.T. and O.T. exercises, a new setback, a new obstacle, would appear before him that he would have to very hard to overcome.  With grim determination, he worked indefatigably to surmount them all; since his left hand was his dominant hand, it was imperative that he regain the ability to use it and his arm, too.  By the end of each session, his left shoulder throbbed, so he would take a dose of his non-prescription painkiller to relieve the pain.

</p><p>In his daily occupational therapy sessions, gradually and with much effort, John learned to stack the wooden blocks with his left hand, even though it took him hours to finish the exercise, starting out; once he finally had accomplished that feat, Harris assigned him other exercises to perform, all of which he found just as difficult to complete, when he first started them.  For example, when Harris told John to bounce a tennis ball off the wall, he couldn’t even throw it; only with difficulty was he able to wrap his fingers around the ball.  Again and again, it kept slipping out of his hand as he kept trying to pick it up.  Finally, he was able to grasp the ball and pick it up, only to have it land far short of the wall when he tossed it, even though he was standing just three feet away from the wall.  Only with days of strenuous effort did he finally reach the point where he could pick it up easily and manage to bounce it against the wall.

</p><p>Likewise, he couldn’t hold a pen or pencil with his left hand, which made it impossible for him to write.  In the cafeteria, whenever John tried to take hold of a teacup’s handle with his left hand, it kept slipping out of his hand, causing the steaming-hot liquid inside to slosh onto the table, his hand, or his lap.  The intermittent tremor made it worse whenever it reared its ugly head.  And whenever he tried to type a letter as a typing exercise during his O.T. sessions, he found it impossible to touch-type as he had once been able to.  The only way he could complete any typing exercise was by slowly typing hunt-and-peck with his index fingers.  Gradually, with daily exercises, he regained the ability to pick up and hold a teacup by its handle with his left hand, and to pick up and hold a writing instrument with the same hand and write with it, but to his dismay, he could only hold it awkwardly, and his once-exquisite handwriting came out messy and cramped, quite a scrawl.

</p><p>“My handwriting used to be so neat, so lovely.  So precise,” he muttered to Harris more than once, shaking his head.  “When I was in primary school, I got top marks for my handwriting, and now look at it!  So cramped, so untidy!  So uneven!”

</p><p>Since, for a long time, John’s left hand was in no shape to shave his face, and shaving with his right was too difficult, one of the rehab staff members shaved him every morning.  Eventually, though, the day came when he could use an electric razor once more, at which point he took over his own shaving, except when his left hand started shaking; then an attendant would help him shave.  He didn’t dare attempt to use a razor; the risk of cutting himself was too great.  And finally, the day came when he could perform his physical and occupational therapy sessions without the intense throbbing returning to his left shoulder, much to his relief.  However, there remained a dull throbbing in it the rest of the time, for which he continued to take his over-the-counter painkiller to relieve it.

</p><p>Although John continued being forced to use the aluminium cane while standing and walking, and was compelled to limp and hobble, instead of walking normally whenever he did so, he was able to walk more briskly than before and could walk longer and longer distances, while leaning on it.  The day finally came when he could walk outside with his cane, and he did.  At that point, he began taking daily brisk walks with his cane outside on the grounds in between his physical, occupational, and psychotherapy sessions, and his workouts in the gym and pool.  Sometimes, Corporal Ryan joined him, to exercise his prosthetic leg, and he was joined by other soldiers for the same reason.  The cool breeze felt good on his face at those times.  Whenever bad weather approached, the throbbing in his shoulder increased in intensity.

</p><p>John’s left arm became stronger, and his range of motion when using that arm slowly improved until it was quite good.  However, he never regained the full use of that arm, and he never reached the point where he could reach above his head or behind him; it hurt too much to even try.  The dull pain in his left shoulder never disappeared altogether, and it always became worse when bad weather was approaching; he always had to take his over-the-counter painkiller to relieve his shoulder pain, and sometimes, he also used a heating pad.  Except for the residual pain, there was almost no feeling left in his shoulder; he could only feel pressure there if someone or something pressed hard against it.  He could feel nothing else.  If anybody touched it, he simply couldn’t feel the touch.  Likewise, his left hand remained tingly and sort of numb, although he gradually regained the ability to use it once more.  John’s hand tremors continued to come and go, and he never knew when they were going to reappear.  Despite all his efforts, his grasp of a writing instrument remained awkward, his once-exquisite handwriting remained cramped and messy, and he was unable to regain his former touch-typing skills, but was forced to slowly type hunt-and-peck with his index fingers.  However, the day finally came when he could make himself and drink a cup of tea once more, and could use both hands to make his bed, and to dress and groom himself.

</p><p>All the while, John continued to have terrifying nightmares about the war, which always had him gasping as he shot up in his cot, terrified.  Shortly after his arrival, he also started having equally frightening flashbacks about the war when he was awake.  Whenever he was in the grip of a flashback, it was as if whatever he was reliving was happening all over again.  The psychotherapist, who already knew about John’s nightmares, was informed about this new development.  Combined with his psychosomatic limp and intermittent hand tremor, it looked as if John might well have PTSD; at the very least, he was traumatised.  All the while, he was careful to maintain a stiff upper lip, to keep his disappointment, frustration, and pain to himself.  As an army officer, he dared to do no less.  Only when he was alone with his therapists did he dare to voice his frustrations and disappointment even a little.

</p><p>Harry and Clara continued to visit John at Headley Court, but he stopped talking to them.  He only engaged in small talk with them whenever they came to see him.  And he retreated inside himself, further and further; a sort of mask came over his face.  Because of the troubles that Harry and Clara were having between them, which were causing them to fall apart, eventually Clara only started visiting him on weekends sometimes.  Harry came at other times, alone.

</p><p>Fortunately, John had no more non-febrile grand mal seizures; the two he’d had at Selly Oak had been the only ones, so far.  John started to hope that maybe—just maybe—since those had been the only such seizures up to that point, if he had no more of them before he had finished his rehab at Headley Court, he would be allowed to remain in the army.  He held onto the prospect that just perhaps, since he’d had no more seizures since September, he would be allowed to perform amended duties until his recovery was complete, and then return to active duty once his rehabilitation was finished.  He knew that many injured soldiers did that, and that after a period of recovery and amended duties, many of them could return to their normal jobs.  Unfortunately, despite all of his efforts to stay positive, he knew all too well that that was a slim hope.  All that John could do was wait to be seen by the Medical Board and then wait for its recommendation, and the Army Personnel Centre’s decision.  His febrile seizures wouldn’t count in their decision; his dangerously high fever during his first days at Selly Oak had caused those seizures, and he wouldn’t be given a medical discharge because of them.  But the other two were a different story.

</p><p>“You’re doing nicely, John,” Harris told him at the end of his O.T. session on the second of November.  “It hasn’t been easy to get to this point, I know, but your fine-motor coordination has improved greatly, and you’ve finally reached the point where you can use your left hand to hold and manoeuvre objects.  You can hold a teacup now, and use a pen to write with, and you can bathe, dress, and groom yourself, stack blocks, throw a tennis ball, make a cup of tea, and things like that.  You can even button your shirt now, and you can put on and take off a pullover if you do it very carefully.  You couldn’t do any of that when you first arrived here.  Your shoulder no longer starts throbbing during your sessions as it did, originally.  And you can raise your left arm just above your face, although you still can’t raise it above your head or behind you.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Will I ever be able to reach that high?  Or behind me?”

</p><p>Harris shrugged and shook his head.  “I’m an occupational therapist, Dr. Watson, not an orthopaedist; I can’t answer that question.  All I can say is that you may be able to, or you may not.”

</p><p>Biting his lower lip, John nodded again and looked for a moment at the heavy rain drumming the windowpane.  The increased throbbing in his shoulder had forewarned him earlier that rain was approaching, and it would remain intensified until the rain had moved out unless he took something to relieve it.  He had already known that he would never regain full mobility of his shoulder or his hand.  John could no longer touch-type, his grasp of a pen or pencil was awkward, his handwriting was cramped and messy, and it was impossible for him to change a light bulb anymore, since that meant raising his left hand above his head.  Attempting to change a light bulb with his right hand was too clumsy.  Nor could he reach behind him as he had once been able to.  He now had to be careful in how he put on or took off a T-shirt or jumper.  The fact that he had regained as much use of his left arm and hand as he had, and that he had regained most of his overall strength and endurance, was a good thing.  It did not help, however, that he was still forced to use the bloody walking cane, or that his left hand still sometimes trembled without warning.  Giving Harris a wan smile, he took hold of his cane, used it to lever himself to his feet, and limped out of the occupational therapy room.

</p><p>THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 2009: HEADLEY COURT

</p><p>10:00 a.m.

</p><p>John stood outside Dr. Walker’s office door.  A few days before, he had been told that he’d been referred to the Medical Board, which meant only one thing: he could be facing an army discharge.  He would have to see them before any decision could be made regarding his Army career.  Taking a deep breath, he carefully balled his left hand and knocked on the door.  “Come in!” said a familiar voice within.

</p><p>John pushed the door open and, leaning on his cane, limped briskly into Dr. Walker’s office.  “Hello, John.”  Smiling, his rehab doctor gestured toward the two men standing by the wall.  “Captain Watson, this is Dr. Johnson and Dr. Evans; they form the Medical Board.  Dr. Evans is the president of this Medical Board, and a consultant in occupational medicine.  They want to examine you while they’re here.”

</p><p>John nodded.  Clearing his throat, he turned to the two men.  “Hello.  Cheers.”  Smiling, he stretched out his left hand to shake theirs, one by one, and the two doctors smiled back.

</p><p>“May we borrow one of your examination rooms to examine Captain Watson in?” Dr. Johnson asked Dr. Walker, who nodded and led the way out of the office.  The four men took the lift to the floor where the examination rooms were located, and Dr. Walker led the other men towards the nearest one.

</p><p>“I’ll wait for you in my office,” he told them, and left.

</p><p>Dr. Evans turned toward John.  “We’ll have to ask you to remove your shirt, Captain Watson,” he told him.  With a nod, John unbuttoned his button-down army shirt and laid it on a chair.  And then, just as he had to, anymore, he first very carefully pulled his left arm out of the army T-shirt, and then he just as carefully used his right hand to pull it up over his head. <b>(20)</b>

</p><p>“Did you always have to remove a pullover shirt that way?” Dr. Johnson asked him.

</p><p>John shook his head.  “Not till after I was shot.”

</p><p>Dr. Johnson exchanged a look with Dr. Evans and then gestured toward the examination table.  “If you’ll have a seat on this table, Dr. Watson, we’ll have a look at you.”  John nodded and perched on the edge of the table, leaning his cane against its edge.

</p><p>The two army doctors frowned as they looked at his shoulder and chest.  Dr. Johnson ran his fingers over John’s shoulder, carefully and gently manipulating it as he did so as Dr. Evans watched.  “Dr. Roland and Dr. McLemore both did an excellent job of saving your life,” Dr. Evans said; John nodded agreement.  They certainly had.  “We’ve already seen the results of your X-rays, so that’s one procedure we won’t have to ask you to undergo.  We’ve also obtained a copy of your medical history, so we won’t have to repeat that here.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “That’s good.”

</p><p>“That doesn’t mean there won’t be some questions we’ll need to ask you, following this examination,” Dr. Johnson added.  John nodded again.  He didn’t doubt that.

</p><p>When the two members of the Medical Board had finished examining John, he slowly and carefully pulled his army T-shirt’s left sleeve on, and then he used his right hand to pull the T-shirt up his left arm and down over his head, at which point he slipped his right arm through its right sleeve and used his right hand to pull the T-shirt further down until it covered his entire back and stomach. <b>(20)</b>  Once that was done, John slipped his arms through the sleeves of his button-down army shirt and buttoned it from the top to the bottom.  He removed his fine-toothed comb from his jeans pocket to comb his hair.  Then the three of them returned to Dr. Walker’s office.

</p><p>The two members of the Medical Board read John’s medical notes quite thoroughly and asked him some questions, which he answered as truthfully as he could.  In the process, he emphasized that he had only had two non-febrile seizures back in September and had had none since then, and that he had regained most of his strength and his hand mobility.  Dr. Walker added that he had reason to believe that the limp and the intermittent hand tremor were psychosomatic, since Dr. McLemore had found no medical cause for either of those two conditions.

</p><p>“I wish to return to my unit,” John said, as he clasped his hands together in his lap.  “I’m prepared to perform some amended duties if I need to, until I can resume my surgical training.”

</p><p>The two members of the Medical Board exchanged a solemn glance.  Dr. Evans gave John a sympathetic smile.  “Her Majesty’s Army needs men like you, Captain Watson,” he said.  “In addition to studying your medical history, we also studied your army record, and Major Clancy and Major Sholto both speak highly of you, and you’ve earned a number of commendations and several medals.  Except for the time when you had to attend counselling for a drinking problem over a year and a half ago, which you appear to have overcome, <b>(21)</b> you have an excellent service record.  And except for the problems caused by the injury to your shoulder, which you are still living with, you appear to be healthy otherwise.”  A sad smile crept across his face.  “Unfortunately, the Army has strict rules regarding non-febrile seizures, Captain Watson.  It’s good to hear that you only had those two at Selly Oak, but that doesn’t mean we can conclude, as yet, that you will never have another.  And even if Dr. Johnson and I <i>were</i> to decide, right now, that no, you’ll never have another seizure—and I sincerely hope you never will—we cannot flout the Army’s rules about them.  And while you definitely <i>have</i> made remarkable progress in regaining your strength and mobility, as is evidenced by your rehabilitation records and what we’ve observed, we have to question whether you have made enough progress in rehab to resume your training as a surgeon.”

</p><p>John’s heart fell with a thud.  He clenched both hands tightly and unclenched them.  “Let me guess—medical discharge,” he said dully.

</p><p>Dr. Evans nodded.  “I’m afraid so, captain.  Believe me, I am so sorry.  I meant what I said—the Army needs men like you, and Dr. Johnson and I are truly sorry to have to make this recommendation.  Since you’re a commissioned officer, we will recommend that you be retired under the Army Promotion and Appointments Warrant 09.  The SO1 Occupational Medicine at the Army Personnel Centre will have to confirm your retirement once we’ve made our recommendation.  If it does, the Army Personnel Centre will implement your retirement and notify you of the date it begins.”  He paused.  “If it helps, I will tell the occupational health specialist at the APC your wishes in this regard.”

</p><p>Taking a deep breath, John bit his lower lip.  “Thank you.  I’d surely appreciate that.  How—how long will it take him to decide?”

</p><p>Dr. Evans leaned back in his chair.  “Usually, I’d say 40 days for our findings to be approved, but in your case, there’s a very good chance that the process will be expedited.  If that turns out to be the case, you should be receiving the APC’s decision within a very short time.”

</p><p>John nodded.  With a sigh, he asked, “Where will I be informed on their decision, once it’s made?”

</p><p>“That’ll be up to the APC.”  Dr. Evans rose to his feet, and the other men followed suit.  Approaching John, he shook his hand.  “Believe me, captain, I wish it were otherwise.”

</p><p>A wan smile crept across John’s face.  “I can see that, Dr. Evans.  Thank you.”  With a heavy heart, he left Dr. Walker’s office and returned to his floor.

</p><p><i>There’s only one thing to hope for,</i> he thought.  <i>That just maybe, the SO1 Occupational Medicine at the APC </i>won’t<i> confirm my early retirement!</i>  He sighed.  Even as that thought flew through his head, he knew that was a slim hope, at best.

</p><p>FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 2009: HEADLEY COURT

</p><p>2:45 p.m.

</p><p>John was in the process of changing his army T-shirt.  The day before, he had been told that the SO1 Occupational Medicine at the Army Personnel Centre had made his decision about John’s army career; as Dr. Evans had suspected, the process had indeed been expedited.  In fact, it had been greatly expedited.  Now a couple of the APC’s officers were going to come to see him at Headley that day, to inform him of the APC’s decision regarding his future in the army.  He would also be informed of the General Medical Council’s decision regarding his surgical career.  It would soon be time to meet with the APC’s occupational medical team to learn the decisions that had made, and he needed to be ready.

</p><p>He first very carefully pulled his left arm out of the T-shirt, and then he just as carefully used his right hand to pull it up over his head. <b>(20)</b>  After he had finished removing his dirty T-shirt and tossed it on his cot, he stopped to look at himself in the mirror before putting on another T-shirt.  What he saw made him wince.

</p><p>He had lost so much weight that his ribs showed, and he looked so hollow.  His eyes looked too big in his now-gaunt face.  But his left shoulder—now that was the worst.  The entire front of his shoulder and the upper left side of his chest were both covered with awful, disfiguring scars; they spread from his collarbone to just above his heart.  There was a massive starburst pattern at least six times the size of the entry wound on the front of his chest above his heart, and there was severe tissue damage surrounding it.  Ridged lines wormed their way outwards from the edges of the starburst at the centre.  Some of those lines were as thin as hair strands, and others were as thick as pencils.  John had no difficulty seeing that the place on his chest where the starburst pattern was located was where the armour-piercing bullet had made its exit from his body before his armour had stopped it.  Had its trajectory been any further down, the bullet would have gone right through his heart, and he would have died for sure.  Several thick incision scars from the four surgeries that John had undergone at Camp Bastion and Selly Oak crossed his shoulder.  Further down on his left, between his ribs, there was a round scar where the chest tube had been inserted into his left lung.  Every scar on his shoulder and upper chest appeared ugly and angry. <b>(22)</b>

</p><p>John’s left shoulder and upper arm were already smaller than his right shoulder and upper arm were.  Furthermore, they were less muscled.  Prior to his shooting, both shoulders and arms had been the same size and had had the same amount of muscle.

</p><p>Turning from the mirror, John took a deep breath.  <i>I’m much too skinny, and my shoulder looks awful!  This is how I looked when the Medical Board examined me!</i>  He took another deep breath and bit his lower lip.  <i>At least I’m alive!  That’s the important thing.  The insurgent didn’t kill me, even though he tried.  None of the complications killed me, either.  I’ll just have to keep my shoulder hidden from sight as much as I can, so others won’t see it.  Maybe eventually, the scars will fade.  I can only hope!</i>  He shook his head at the cane and scowled.  <i>I wish I could also hide my limp!  Better yet, I wish it would go away, and the hand tremors, too.</i>  He glared down at his left hand.

</p><p>With a sigh, he commenced putting on a clean army T-shirt.  First, he slowly and carefully pulled its left sleeve on, and then he used his right hand to pull the T-shirt up his left arm and down over his head, at which point he slipped his right arm through its right sleeve and used his right hand to pull the T-shirt further down until it covered his entire back and stomach. <b>(20)</b>  Once that was done, John slipped his arms through the sleeves of a clean button-down army shirt and buttoned it from the top to the bottom.  When he had finished dressing himself, he combed his hair and used his electric razor to shave his face.  He had already taken a shower and washed his hair that morning.  How fortunate he was that he could do those things once more!

</p><p>Minutes later, John was sitting in the lounge with several other soldiers; behind him, the mid-afternoon sunlight flooded through the window.  He tried to watch telly with them, but he was unable to keep his mind on the show.  He missed Corporal Ryan, who had been discharged from Headley Court the day after John's meeting with the Medical Board.  Ryan, too, had been seen the Medical Board during his stay there, and he would be given a medical discharge, John knew.  He couldn’t concentrate on anything; he was too anxious.  He kept trying to suck any ray of hope out of the words of the Medical Board that he could.  After all, they could only recommend, but the Army Personnel Centre had to approve their findings before John could be retired from the Army.  Was there any chance that APC would <i>not</i> approve their findings?  If they didn’t, then what?  Would he be reassigned to a desk job?  Or to a hospital on British soil?  Would he—wonder of wonders—be assigned to perform some amended duties until his recovery was complete, and then be allowed to return to Afghanistan to resume his surgical training?  Or—horrors—would he be discharged (or retired, since he was a captain in the army) from the army altogether, and stripped of his surgical licence and possibly his GP licence by the General Medical Council?

When John was called to the office to meet with the occupational health team from the APC, he would learn their decision, and the decision of the GMC.  He couldn’t stop fidgeting on the maroon leather sofa he was seated on; he was too anxious to sit still.  Over and over, he kept pressing his left fingertips with his right thumb, wishing they could feel his thumb once more.

</p><p>John knew that he had made more or less as much progress, physically, as he could expect to make in the time that he had been at Headley Court, if not for the rest of his life, and he still lived with symptoms of trauma, if not actual PTSD.  He still had nightmares and flashbacks; he was still forced to limp on a walking cane; and he still had an intermittent hand tremor.  There was still residual pain in his shoulder, which bad weather made worse.  Whenever John removed a jumper or an army T-shirt that he wore underneath another shirt, he was compelled to first pull his left arm out that shirt, and then use his right hand to pull the shirt up over his head and thus take it off; likewise, he had to put one on in the opposite way, as he had done when he had changed shirts minutes earlier.  It hurt too much to put on or take off a pullover shirt any other way. <b>(20)</b>  John still held a pen and pencil awkwardly, and his once-exquisite handwriting continued to be a real scrawl, messy, untidy, and cramped.  Because he could no longer touch-type, he had to slowly type hunt-and-peck with his index fingers.  His left hand and shoulder were both still pretty numb.  When he touched his left hand’s fingertips with his right thumb, they couldn’t feel his thumb; it didn’t matter how often or how many times he pressed down on them, or how much he stretched them, waved them about, or clenched his hand.  Likewise, he could only feel pressure against his shoulder, nothing else. <b>(23)</b>  John was still too thin and hollow; he had yet to regain any of the weight that he had lost over the last few months.  His shoulder’s range of motion, though it had become quite good, was still definitely reduced; he could no longer reach overhead or behind him as he had once been able to, not without intense pain in his shoulder.  At least, though, John could once more button a shirt and a jacket, bathe himself, shave, and comb his hair, and he could once again hold and drink out of a teacup with his left hand (when his traitorous hand tremor didn’t cause him to drop it or spill its contents, that is).  He hadn’t had a single seizure since September, grand mal or petit mal.  But would those improvements make any difference in the eyes of SO1 Occupational Medicine at the Army Personnel Centre?  Or, for that matter, the General Medical Council?

</p><p>With a sigh, John grabbed hold of his aluminium cane, used it to lever himself onto his feet, and limped out of the lounge and down the hall toward the ward he had been staying in since his arrival.  He couldn’t concentrate on the telly, and he was in no mood to chat with anybody.  If he was going to brood about the Army Personnel Centre’s decision anyway, he may as well do it reclining on his cot.  Upon entering the ward, he leaned his cane against his nightstand and plopped down on the cot, turning onto his back and pushing himself backwards into a sitting position against the headboard.  He thought of picking up his book to read it, but then decided against it.  In his current state, it would be impossible for him to keep his concentration.  Instead, he resumed pressing his left fingertips with his right thumb.

</p><p>“Captain Watson?”  A nurse stood in the doorway.  “The occupational health team from the APC is waiting for you in Dr. Walker’s office.”

</p><p>John nodded and, stifling a groan, reached for the cane and levered himself to his feet.  Leaning on the cane, he hobbled briskly out of the ward and accompanied the nurse down the hall and up the lift to the floor where the doctors’ offices were.  Upon reaching Dr. Walker’s office, she opened the door for John, and he limped inside, approaching the desk.

</p><p>“Hello, Captain Watson,” Dr. Walker greeted him.

</p><p>With his usual easy smile, John said, “Hello,” and then he greeted the members of the occupational health team.  He took a seat alongside them, leaning back in the black leather armchair.  Behind Dr. Walker’s desk, the sunlight poured in through the office window, and a colonel sat in one of the other chairs.

</p><p>“I’m Colonel Bradford, from the Army Personnel Centre, and this is Dr. Tyler of the SO1 Occupational Medicine,” the colonel introduced himself.  “We're here to inform you of the decision that’s been made about your career.”  John nodded and, squaring his shoulders, swallowed hard.  The colonel leaned forward.

</p><p>“Captain Watson,” Colonel Bradford told him, “as you already know, the Medical Board has reviewed your case very carefully; in the process, they’ve studied your diagnosis, the complications you endured at Selly Oak, and the progress you’ve made in your rehabilitation.  And they’ve sent their findings and their recommendation to the Army Personnel Centre; since you’re a licenced GP and a combat surgeon in training, they’ve also sent their findings to the General Medical Council.  Keep in mind, Captain Watson, that no one is <i>ever</i> discharged from the army if there is any chance that he can eventually recuperate from his injuries, and that his skills can still be used.”

</p><p>John nodded.  He knew that.  He had the uneasy feeling that Colonel Bradford was leading up to bad news.  His next words proved him right.

</p><p>“You know that, and you also know that no one who has had seizures in the past 10 years is allowed to join the military.  Likewise, no soldier who’s had a seizure is allowed to remain in the military.  And by seizures, I don’t mean febrile seizures; those are caused by dangerously high fevers, and pose no threat to a soldier or doctor’s performance of his duty once they’re over.  But non-febrile seizures are another matter, entirely.  Unfortunately, seven weeks without seizures is not sufficient time to determine that the threat of more seizures is behind you.”

</p><p>John nodded again, swallowing hard.  He could see what the colonel was leading up to.

</p><p>“It has been the decision of the Army Personnel Centre that you be retired from the army on medical grounds under the Army Promotion and Appointments Warrant 09, effective on the first of next month.  For all intents and purposes, your retirement will be the same as a P8 medical discharge, with a RE Code 4, except that you’ll receive retirement benefits.”  John winced.  P8 meant that the army had decided a soldier was unfit for any kind of military service whatsoever, and RE Code 4 meant that the soldier would be ineligible to re-enlist in any branch of the military service unless, at some point in the future, he was granted an exception to policy waiver.  Since John was facing early retirement from the army instead of waiting 20 years or longer to retire, his prospects for re-enlistment in any branch of the military were the same as those facing a P8 medical discharge.  The colonel added, “The good news is, your medical retirement is the same as an honourable discharge; therefore, once your discharge goes into effect, you will be eligible for full military retirement benefits, even though you only served for three years, not twenty.  In addition, because of your grand mal seizures in September, and because of the nerve damage in your shoulder, the decision has also been made by the General Medical Council to revoke your surgical licence until it is satisfied that you can safely work as a surgeon once more.  However, you will still be permitted to work as a general practitioner if you so choose.”  Colonel Bradford paused.  “Likewise—again because of your grand mal seizures in September—the decision was also made by the Driver and Vehicle Licencing Agency to revoke your driver’s licence until further notice.  If, five years from now, you have had no more non-febrile seizures, you may appeal the decisions regarding your driver’s licence and your surgical licence.”

</p><p>John just slumped back in the chair, stunned.  This was worse than he had thought.  Not only was he was being retired early from the military, never to return, and was now forbidden to work as a surgeon until further notice, but he could no longer drive, either.  He would have to live where there was ready public transportation, preferably buses and tubes.  His only ray of hope was that if he had no more seizures for the next five years, he could eventually appeal their decisions regarding his driving and surgical licences, and perhaps regain them.  But the army’s decision regarding his medical retirement could never be repealed.

</p><p>“Your medical retirement will go into effect on December 1st.  The MOD will be providing you a place to stay.  In the meantime, you’ll need to contact your local Individual Education and Resettlement Officer at the Army Education Centre, so he can help you with resettlement.  The Medical Board will send him your contact details.  You will also be given a list of ex-service charities that can help you.”  The colonel gave John a sympathetic look.  “Where do you wish to live, when you leave Headley, Captain Watson?”

</p><p>Clearing his throat, John said in a choked voice, “Uh—uh, London, if I can afford it.”  He had always loved London, and it had an abundance of tubes and buses as well as taxis.

</p><p>Colonel Bradford nodded.  “In that case, the MOD will arrange for you to live in MOD-subsidised housing somewhere in the Greater London area, and a regional occupational health team and an IERO in London will be assigned to your case at that point.  They will provide you with rehabilitation and support services.  Your medical documents have already been faxed to the Service Personnel and Veterans Agency for assessment.  That will determine the type of pension and compensation you’ll be receiving.  Since you’re being invalided out, the SPVA has already decided upon a pension on your behalf.”  For the next few minutes, he explained to John how much would go into his lump sum and his monthly army pension, both of which would be based on his military rank upon discharge and the amount of time that he had been in the army.  At the end, he added, “A Unit Resettlement Officer will come here to meet with you before your discharge date.  He will schedule you an interview with your IERO.  On the day of your discharge, you will receive some forms you will need to keep afterwards.”  John nodded.

</p><p>“One more thing, Dr. Watson,” Dr. Walker told him.  “Because of the metal in your left shoulder, if and when you ever have to undergo a security check before you enter a building, the pins, screw, and fixation plate inside your shoulder will set off the metal detector.  You will have to be prepared to explain to the guard what’s happening when that occurs.”  Biting his lower lip, John nodded.  Dr. Walker was right, he knew.
  
</p><p>At last, Dr. Walker, Colonel Bradford, and the team members rose to their feet, and with the help of his walking cane, John did the same.  “You will stay here until the first, Dr. Watson,” Dr. Walker told him, “and we will continue with your rehab until your discharge date.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Th—thank you.”

</p><p>Dr. Walker circled his desk and approached John.  “This is not an easy decision to hear, I know.  But you will have time, now, to begin to make the adjustment, and to start making decisions as to what you’re going to do once you leave here.”

</p><p>“How—how will I go to London?” John asked.

</p><p>“Arrangements will be made for your transportation,” the other doctor assured him.  “Why don’t you return to your floor now?  You’re excused from the remainder of your therapy sessions for the rest of this day.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Th—thank you.”  Nodding toward the occupational team specialists, he turned and left the office and slowly hobbled back to his ward, a lump of misery in his gut.  What was he going to do?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have come across what turned about to be a gem on the Wayback Machine: a pdf file titled <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20150923185915/http://www.army.mod.uk/documents/general/Transition_To_Civilian_Life.pdf">“Transition to Civilian Life”</a>.  In it, I was able to acquire much information about the discharge process.  However, I still don’t know how a medically discharged soldier is informed of his/her discharge; I don’t know if they receive the news by letter, phone call, or in person, or whether the soldier is informed by the Army Personnel Center’s occupational health specialist or an officer at the APC—or both.  Unfortunately, there was no information to be had on the Web that I could find, that answers those questions.  Also, despite what I’ve been able to find out with Internet research, and especially on that document, there is still much I don’t know about the discharge process itself.  Therefore, I have had to employ creative license for a portion of this chapter, and I have assumed that since John is undergoing rehab at Headley Court, he was told in person.  If I am mistaken, any British readers who are knowledgeable about the procedure are free to tell me!</p><p>I got the idea for John losing his driver's license from 221b_hound's story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2390756/chapters/5282345">"Save My Soul."</a>.</p><p><b>(20)</b> In BlueSkye12’s stories, all of which are posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4420770/BlueSkye12">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSkye12/pseuds/BlueSkye12/works?fandom_id=133185">Archive of Our Own</a>, this is the way that John must remove and put on his pullover shirts, because the injury to his shoulder makes it impossible for him to put them on normally anymore.  Since he was never shown putting on or removing a pullover on the TV show, that could have at least theoretically been a problem for him.  In addition, I have borrowed from her stories certain other things that John has difficulty with—handwriting, using a writing instrument, typing, etc.</p><p><b>(21)</b> In Chapter 1 of sgam76’s story, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/14621058/chapters/33789738">“A Long Walk Down a Dusty Road,”</a> John exhibited a drinking problem while in the army, which he ended up needing six months’ counseling to overcome.</p><p><b>(22)</b> I borrowed the descriptions of John’s shoulder and chest scars from the stories by BlueSkye12, and from <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2070526#workskin">Chapter 7</a> of bakerstreetgirl’s story, “The Bravery of the Soldier,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9818692/1/The-Bravery-of-the-Soldier">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2044784">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p><b>(23)</b> It was bakerstreetgirl’s idea, shown in <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2070526#workskin">Chapter 7</a>, that because of the nerve damage in John’s shoulder, he can only feel pressure against it and nothing else.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Leaving</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>After John has completed his rehab at Headley Court and his discharge has gone into effect, Harry takes him to London to stay with her for a short time.  Upon his arrival at her house, he and Harry have a serious talk.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2009: HEADLEY COURT

</p><p>1:10 p.m.

</p><p>For the rest of that month, John kept busy with his three daily rehab sessions and his daily workouts in the gym and in the therapeutic swimming pool.  His appetite was gone; he had a most difficult time making himself eat.  A few hours after he had learned about his impending discharge, Harry rang him to tell him that she had moved permanently out of the house that she had, until recently, shared with Clara.  When Clara came by to visit him the following day, on Saturday, he expressed his regrets to her over failing to notice what had happened between herself and Harry, and she attempted to make small talk with him.  At that point, he squared his shoulders, took a deep breath, and told her about his impending discharge from the army, and that he could no longer drive or work as a surgeon.  Clara just sat there, stunned; she couldn’t believe what he had just told her.  Afterward, they sat in silence, during which time John kept touching the fingertips of his left hand with his right, unable to feel them.  His left shoulder continued to throb dully.

</p><p>Finally, Clara began to fidget.  “Uh, John, I gotta go; I’ve got some errands to run before I return to London.  Tell you what, why don’t I tell Harry the bad news?  I know you’re not particularly looking forward to telling her yourself.”

</p><p>John snorted.  “That’s putting it mildly.”  He looked straight at her.  “And thanks.  I’d appreciate it.”  As she rose to leave, his left hand started shaking, and he immediately stretched his fingers out and then clenched his hand in a tight fist to stop it from shaking, feeling embarrassed that that should have happened in front of Clara; he gave out a half-laugh.  Gazing down at his fist, he said, “I can’t quite feel them, you know.  They’re sort of…just a bit numb.” <b>(24)</b>  He bit his lower lip.  Without a word, Clara just looked at him sadly and left.  After a long moment, John stretched his fingers out again and clenched his hand into a fist several more times, and then spent a few minutes rubbing his left fingers with his right thumb.  Finally, satisfied that the hand tremor had once again stopped, he relaxed his left hand and laid both hands on his lap.  He leaned back in his chair and sighed, and then rose to his feet to get himself a dose of painkiller.

</p><p><i>I suppose I'll have to work as a GP when I’m ready to go back to work.  Whenever that is,</i> he thought dully minutes later, as he swallowed the painkiller.  He sighed.  <i>I’m not particularly looking forward to that; being a GP is so boring.  That’s why I finally decided to become a surgeon.  But I have no choice now.</i>  He sighed again, heavily. <i> It’s a good thing I trained to become a general practitioner first, even though I didn’t particularly want to, to begin with.  At least this way, with my GP licence, I have that to fall back on, now that I can no longer be a surgeon.</i>  Looking back down at his hands, he again stretched out his left hand’s fingers as far as they would go, and then he kept pressing down on the fingertips of his left hand with his right thumb over and over again.  They could not quite feel his right hand’s fingertips.  A moment later, the residual throbbing in his shoulder subsided.  He relaxed his hands again and sighed.  <i>Once I’m settled in whatever housing MOD assigns me, I’ll have to set up a current account for my army pension and lump sum, and the money I’ve saved over the years.  That’ll mean finding a bank near wherever I end up living; hopefully, it’ll be a NatWest bank.  At least I’m in no debt, which will help.  I’ll have to see about getting a new phone, too, while I’m at it.</i>  Perhaps he would buy a landline when he bought a new mobile phone.

</p><p>The following Monday, John met with a Unit Resettlement Officer, who promised to schedule him an appointment with his local Individual Education and Resettlement Officer.  The IERO would help him prepare a resettlement plan in London.  A few days later, the IERO drove from London to Selly Oak to help John make his plans.  John would embark on carrying them out as soon as he had arrived in London.

</p><p>On his own time, John continued to hang out with the other soldiers.  Together, they watched telly, chatted, took walks out on the grounds, worked out in the gym, and played board games.  During his P.T. and O.T. sessions, John made only a little more physical progress, and in his psychotherapy sessions, he was just as reticent as he had been in the beginning.  He could see no use in being more open with his therapist than he had before, since doing so would not bring back his army career or his career as a surgeon; at the same time, he stayed in control of his emotions throughout his therapy sessions.  Harry visited him just once during those remaining days; during that one visit, she freaked out and accused him of abandoning her when he had joined the army.  Clara visited him by herself one more time during the last weekend before December.  And then, a few days before December began, he received a letter from MOD informing him of the residence it was providing for him upon his discharge: a bedsit in the south-eastern part of the Greater London area.  Included in the manilla envelope with the letter was some paperwork he would need to show to his new landlord.  He also received a letter from the SPVA stating that his lump sum and his first month’s pension would be deposited in his current account at his NatWest bank on the first of December.

</p><p>At last, December 1st arrived.  It was a cold, rainy day, so John’s shoulder was throbbing more intensely than usual; he took a dose of over-the-counter painkiller to ease the pain.  After lunch, John packed his grey suitcase and his duffle bag (since he had never unpacked his army pack, there was no need to pack it), put on his second-hand canvas jacket that he’d purchased at Oxfam while he’d been a medical student at King’s College, and waited for his ride, watching the rain pouring down outside the window.  Harry had grudgingly agreed to come to Surrey to pick him up and take him to her house, where he would stay while he was in the process of getting ready to move into his new bedsit; it was clear from the tone of her voice that she didn’t really want to do it.  He could only hope that she was sober; other arrangements would have to be hurriedly made for his transportation if she was drunk.  He didn’t know what they would be, since he couldn’t afford to pay bus or taxi fare for the lengthy trip from Birmingham to London.

</p><p>John picked up the sheaf of papers that had been given to him that morning.  On the top lay his Termination of Service Certificate, which certified the date on which his army service was set to expire—that date.  Underneath it was a Certificate of Service, a record of his professional career in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces.  The other papers consisted of a security form, a report of a National Health Service number which explained how to register with the NHS and available services, a Family Doctor Registration that contained his current medical history upon release from the Armed Forces, and the letter from the Ministry of Defence about the bedsit that he would henceforth be living in, along with the accompanying paperwork from the MOD.  He included those papers along with the paperwork that the MOD had sent him about his new bedsit and placed them all in a folder that Dr. Walker had given him, and then he packed the stuffed folder in his suitcase.

</p><p><i>I’m not Captain John Watson anymore,</i> he thought, with a sigh, as he closed and fastened the suitcase shut.  <i>I’m just plain Dr. John Watson now.</i>

</p><p>To his relief, when Harry entered the ward minutes later, she was sober.  Even though she was wearing a mackintosh and a plastic scarf, her light blonde hair was dripping wet.  An attendant followed her into the ward.  “Hey, Johnny,” she greeted him.  She wasn’t smiling, he noticed, but at least she wasn’t drunk, either.  Hopefully, she would not start giving him a hard time as she had done during her previous visit.

</p><p>“Hey, Harry.”  John raised his left hand in greeting.  His sister said nothing else.  Taking hold of his aluminium cane with his right hand and using it to lever himself, John rose to his feet and glanced down at his watch, which he always wore on his left wrist so he wouldn’t have to keep taking it off to reset it.  At least he’d be taking with him some souvenirs from Afghanistan: his cheap knock-off Tag Heuer watch with the square bezel, plastic cover, steel buckle, and black leather strap that he’d purchased at a bazaar while stationed at Camp Bastion during his first year there, as well as his RAMC mug, his second-hand No. 2 uniform and beret, and his tags, medals, and written commendations.  Except for his watch, which was strapped to his left wrist, all of them were packed with the rest of the possessions in his suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack.  The only thing that had not been packed had been the LOTR novel that he’d been reading when he’d been sent out on that final retrieval mission, and it had not been sent to him since his transfer to Headley Court.  Harris had given him a hand therapy ball to keep and practice with; it was packed in his suitcase.  At least Harry had all of the photos that had been taken of him and his army mates.

</p><p>The attendant picked up John’s suitcase and duffle bag, and John picked up his army pack.  Harry led the way out of the ward and down the hall.  Once outside, where her car was waiting in the rain by the kerb, while John and Harry waited inside the doorway, the attendant put the suitcase and duffle bag in the boot and took from John his army pack to put in there as well.  John thanked him, and then he and Harry got into the car.  John’s sandy-blond hair and his clothes were spattered with raindrops when he closed the car door, and raindrops rolled down his face and Harry’s; he reached up to wipe them off his face.

</p><p>“Thanks, Hare.”  John smiled wanly; she shrugged and did not smile back.  Hopefully, she would not give him a hard time about having to travel all that distance to pick him up; it was evident from her mood that she was doing this for him unwillingly.  John suspected that having to do this on a rainy day wasn’t helping matters any.  On the way out of the city, they stopped at a nearby Boots pharmacy so John could buy a bottle of over-the-counter painkiller, and then they left Birmingham and drove the rest of the way to London.  Fortunately, Harry made an effort to be civil throughout the trip, and John did the same.  For the rest of the drive Southeast to the Greater London area, they chatted off and on, making small talk.

</p><p>TUESDAY, DECEMBER 1, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>4:00 p.m.

</p><p>About two hours and forty-five minutes after leaving Headley Court, they arrived in Greater London, where the rain had moved on out earlier; John noticed glistening puddles spread out on the streets and pavements.  By then, his shoulder was throbbing intensely once more.  Harry drove towards Camden, where she had recently moved into a rented house.  She had already told him that she intended to buy herself a house as soon as she found one that she wanted.  When they arrived at her new house, she carried his suitcase and duffle bag up the porch steps and into the house while he limped on his walking cane behind her, carrying his army pack.  At least he could manage stairs with his cane.

</p><p>Once inside, John paused to take a long look at the photographs that he’d spent the last several months sending to Harry and Clara from Afghanistan.  Several of the latest ones stood on the fireplace mantel shelf, and the rest of them hung in picture frames on one of the lounge walls.  Apparently, Harry had brought them all with her when she’d moved out of the other house; that touched John deeply.  His older sister stood next to him to look at them as well.

</p><p>“Yes, I brought them all with me,” she said.  “I didn’t want to leave them behind.”

</p><p>John looked at her.  “I’m glad you did.  Thanks.”

</p><p>As soon as he was ready, Harry led the way into the bedroom that her little brother would be occupying during his stay and dumped the suitcase and duffle bag on the bed that he was going to sleep in.  John laid his army pack on the bed next to his suitcase and duffle bag.  “Join me in the lounge when you’ve unpacked and freshened yourself.  We’ve got some stuff to talk about,” she told him, and he nodded.  Harry left the bedroom.  John decided not to bother unpacking, since he was going to be moving to his new bedsit very shortly.  He would unpack then.

</p><p>After he had taken a dose of his OTC painkiller for his shoulder and finished freshening himself, he joined his sister in the lounge, where he saw that Harry had taken a bottle of beer out of the fridge.  It was already a quarter-empty, he noticed.  The two of them sat on the comfortable velvet-covered sofa.  The heater hummed in the background, warming up the lounge.

</p><p>“We need to talk, Johnny,” she told him soberly, as soon as she had taken another sip of the beer.  “You know I’m not living with Clara anymore.”

</p><p>“Yeah.”  John nodded agreement.

</p><p>Twisting her mouth, Harry fidgeted, a sure indication that she was trying to find the words for something hard that she knew she needed to say.  At last, with a sigh, she said, “Clara told me that—that she told you the shape I was in, when you were first brought into Selly Oak.  How drunk I was, that night.”

</p><p>John grimaced.  “While I was at Selly Oak, yeah.  She told me you tried to get the plug pulled on me that night, Harry.”  He gave her a reproachful, hurt look.  “I would have died for sure, right then, if Dr. McLemore had done that.”

</p><p>Harry winced.  “I know; I was drunk.  That was stupid of me, and I’m so sorry, Johnny.  Really, I am.  That <i>would</i> have got you killed if Dr. McLemore had done that.  I’m glad he didn’t.”

</p><p>An expression of horror suddenly etched her face.  Holding her hand to her throat, she held up her other hand, leaped to her feet, and darted into the loo, where John overheard her throwing up.

</p><p>“Sorry,” she said, minutes later, as she returned to the lounge.  “Guess I’m not quite over it all yet.  Anyway, I know that would have got you killed, Johnny.”

</p><p>“It sure would have,” John agreed.  “Clara told me she had to take you home because you were too drunk to be any use to me that night.”

</p><p>With a sigh, Harry rose to her feet and strode into the kitchen, followed by John.  She poured the rest of the beer down the drain in the sink.  When that was done, she tossed the empty bottle in the bin.  “This is the last time, Johnny,” she told him, and John nodded.  It was far from being the first time she had promised to stop drinking; whether she would actually do it that time remained to be seen.  Seated side by side once more on the sofa in the lounge, they talked till after midnight, stopping only long enough to have supper, which John only ate a few bites of.  During their lengthy discussion, John explained his will to his older sister in great detail; he wanted to make sure that she understood. <b>(25)</b>  When it was 12:15 a.m., they both went to bed.

</p><p><i>Starting tomorrow, I’ve got work to do,</i> John thought, as he lay in bed.  <i>I’ve got to go to the building where this bedsit is located and sign the lease.  I won’t be able to afford anything better on an army pension, so the bedsit will have to do.  I’ve also got to contact my IERO, to let him know I’ve moved in.  I’ve got to pay the utilities deposit.  I’ve got to buy a new mobile phone and set up a contract so I can start using it and my laptop; I may get a landline while I’m at it.  At least I won’t have much to unpack when I get there.  I’m not going to bother unpacking until then.</i>  He bit his lower lip.  <i>I’m not Captain Watson anymore; from now on, I’m just plain Dr. Watson.</i>  With a sigh, he turned on his side, closed his eyes, and soon drifted off.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>(24)</b> I borrowed this little bit of dialogue from Blueskye12’s story, “Meeting Clara”, which can be found on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8801777/1/Meeting-Clara">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/942236">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p><p><b>(25)</b> In <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2149620">Chapter 17</a> of bakerstreetgirl’s story, “The Bravery of the Soldier,” which is also posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9818692/1/The-Bravery-of-the-Soldier">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1025731/chapters/2044784">Archive of Our Own</a>, John recollects how Harry had reacted upon learning that her actions had nearly gotten her own brother killed, and that she had promised to stop drinking and poured the rest of her beer down the drain.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Bedsit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John signs the lease for his new bedsit and makes preparations to move in.  Upon taking up residence, he does <i>not</i> find it a cheerful place to live.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After this, I've got just one chapter left to post! =)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 2, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>8:00 a.m.

</p><p>The next morning, Harry drove to the jewellery shop that she owned in northern London.  Shortly after she’d left for work, John, glancing at his watch, picked up his dark green document case in which he’d placed the paperwork that MOD had sent him and his discharge papers, as well as his wallet and chequebook, and, grasping the cane with his right hand, levered himself to his feet.  He left the house, limped down the street toward the nearest tube station, and took the tube to the street where the bedsit was situated.  Fortunately, the sun was out, and there were only a few fluffy white clouds drifting in the sky, so at least he wouldn’t have to worry about getting wet.  As he discovered upon arrival, his new bedsit was located on the other side of London from Westminster, in one of the city’s poorer and least attractive neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the eastern side of Greater London, south of the River Thames.  And as John also quickly noticed, the block that the bedsit was situated in was a lengthy walk away from the nearest tube station, the one that he had taken to get to the street his new bedsit was on; there was no tube station that was any closer.

</p><p><i>This is a rather dodgy neighbourhood.  The working-class neighbourhood Harry and I grew up in back in Chelmsford was nicer than this,</i> John thought with a frown, as he briskly hobbled down the street from the tube station towards the building where he would be living during the foreseeable future.  <i>I don’t see any shops anywhere here!  Just a pub.  That means I’ll have to take the tube to go shopping and run my other errands.</i>

</p><p>Upon coming to an old four-story red brick building, he stopped and looked down at the address that the MOD had sent him.  Sure enough, it was that building.  <i>So, this is the block I’ll be living in.</i>  With a sigh, he glanced at his watch.  It was 10:55 a.m., almost time for his appointment with the landlord.

</p><p>Sighing again, John approached the wooden door; it creaked as he swung it open.  Upon entering, he scanned the lobby for the landlord’s office; seeing it, he approached its entrance.  The office door stood wide open, and a grey-haired, sour-faced man sat at a varnished pine desk, typing some info onto a desktop.  John knocked on the door.  “Excuse me?”

</p><p>The man swivelled his leather chair to face the entrance.  “May I help you?”  There was no welcoming smile on his face.

</p><p>“Hello, I’m John Watson, Dr. John Watson; I was referred to this place by the MOD.”  John held up the document case he had brought with him upon leaving Harry’s house.

</p><p>The man rose to his feet.  “I’m Ganesh Kalluri, the landlord.”  He spoke with a faint Indian accent and did not smile.  “Come on in, Dr. Watson.  Yes, the MOD told me they were sending me an ex-soldier to live here.”

</p><p>With a nod, John limped briskly into the office, leaning on his cane.  “Have a seat,” Mr. Kalluri said, gesturing towards the hardback chair on the other side of his desk.  John lowered himself into the chair, leaned his cane against the front of the desk, and laid his document case on the desk’s surface as the landlord sat back down, removed the paperwork from the document case, and read it all, and then he pulled up something on his desktop while John slid his paperwork back into the case.  For the next several minutes, Mr. Kalluri asked John a series of questions and typed the newly retired army doctor’s answers into his desktop.  Afterward, he had John read and sign several sheets of paper, the last of which was his new lease.  His rent would be £180 a week, and he would have to pay his first week’s rent and a security deposit before moving in.  Utilities and Internet would not be included in the rent; John would have to get those and pay for them separately.

</p><p><i>My rent and utilities alone—not to mention my Internet and phone!—are going to take quite a chunk out of my monthly pension,</i> John thought wryly.  <i>And when I add groceries, toiletries, and other necessities…</i>

</p><p>“It’s a weekly lease, so you’ll be paying your rent on a weekly basis,” Mr. Kalluri said, breaking into John’s thoughts.  “Once you’ve lived here for a week, Dr. Watson, you’re welcome to move out if you find some place better to live elsewhere.  I expect you to tell me if you do.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “I’ll keep that in mind.  Thanks.”  <i>Not that I’ll be able to afford anyplace better.</i>

</p><p>“It’s just a bedsit, with a bedroom and a kitchenette.  You’ll have to share the bathroom and toilet with everyone else who lives on your floor.  There’s just one washer and dryer in this entire building, so you’ll have to pick your times for doing your laundry carefully.  They’re downstairs in the basement.  Neither machine is in the best of shape, so be prepared to jiggle them when you’re washing your clothes.”  Mr. Kalluri took a swallow out of a can of beer on his desk.  “The good news is, your bedsit’s already furnished, so you won’t have to buy any furniture.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Good.”  Just as well, since he couldn’t afford to buy any furniture.

</p><p>He slipped his chequebook out of his document case’s zipped carrier and then, holding his pen awkwardly, he wrote in his cramped, untidy, messy handwriting a cheque covering the first week’s rent and the security deposit, and handed it to Mr. Kalluri.  As soon as possible, he was going to have to find a NatWest bank nearby to use his current account at.  <i>I’ll also have to remember to store my wallet in my front trousers pocket instead of my back whenever I’m away from my bedsit.  Can’t have any pickpockets stealing it!</i> he thought drily.

</p><p>A few minutes later, Mr. Kalluri took a key out of the desk drawer and handed it to John, and then he took the now-retired army doctor up the lift to the second floor.  Once the lift door slid open, he led the way to the end of the hall.  Wooden doors painted dull-green lined both walls of that hall, and there was another such door on the far end, opposite from where the lift stood.  The first door in the right wall that was closest to the door on the far end stood next to the stairs landing.  Mr. Kalluri approached the door on the far end of the hall, took a key out of his jeans pocket, and unlocked that door.  He opened it for John, who hobbled in while leaning on his walking cane and scanned what was clearly a bedroom that doubled as a lounge.

</p><p>The bedroom’s walls were the same colour as the door, John noticed, only lighter; the single bed stood next to a radiator against the wall.  It was no wider than a hospital cot.  A storage container stood at the foot of that bed.  Apparently, his new bedsit spanned the entire end of that floor; there were windows on both ends of the bedsit.  In addition to the single bed and the radiator, the bedroom contained a desk across the room from the bed, one wooden chair under the desk, and a small table on the other side of the bedroom from the windows.  There was a reading light on the small stand next to the head of the bed, and another reading light on the desk.  There was no sofa, love seat, or armchair anywhere in the bedsit; John would have to sit on the bed or the desk chair.  The entrance door was in the same wall that the bed and radiator stood next to, and the kitchenette was situated across the room from the bedroom windows.  Heavy yellowish-green drapes covered all but a portion of one of the bedroom windows; that portion was covered by white curtains through which the morning sunlight shone into the bedroom.  A wall which extended most of the way across the side of the bedroom that was opposite from the bedroom windows separated that room from the kitchenette.  Where that wall ended, the door-less entrance into the kitchenette began; the entrance and an open rectangular bar that doubled as a kitchen counter separated the bedroom/lounge from the kitchen.  The small table stood next to the wall, underneath that bar.  The kitchenette had a window above the sink, covered only by Venetian blinds.

</p><p>John sighed.  This was a drab, dingy bedsit, but as far as bedsits went, it could be much worse, he knew.  At least it had a separate kitchenette, so he wouldn’t have to do his cooking in the bedroom/lounge.  At any rate, it would be impossible to afford any place better on his army pension, and he was used to having to make do.  <i>I’ll have to call the utilities company to get my utilities set up, and go there to pay the deposit.  I’ll see if I can do that today.  Once my utilities are up and running, I can move in.  I’ll also have to buy myself a mobile phone and go to the phone company to get a phone and Internet contract.  While I’m at it, I’ll see if I can afford a landline.  I could use one.  When I get back to Harry’s, I’ll bring my IERO up to date on my move.</i>  He grimaced.  <i>I’ll have to dip into my savings to afford all of that!</i>

</p><p>He turned to Mr. Kalluri.  “Thank you,” he said.  “I’ll get the utilities set up today or tomorrow and move in on Friday, if they’re up and running by then.”  Mr. Kalluri nodded and, upon leaving the bedsit, showed John where the bathroom was located, in the middle of the hall; John spent a moment seeing what it consisted of.  He would have to take his daily showers and use the loo in there.  He then followed Mr. Kalluri back down the lift to the ground floor.  After saying good-bye, John left the block and limped back to the tube station to return to Harry’s house.  The dull throb had returned to his left shoulder, and he was anxious to get back so he could take another painkiller.

</p><p>Back at Harry’s house, after he had taken his painkiller, John spent all afternoon on her landline, trying to organise his utilities.  When he had finished, all that remained was to ring his IERO, to bring him up to date; when he had finished that phone call, he was exhausted.  He would have to spend the next morning visiting the premises of various energy companies, until he finally found what he was satisfied with, and had made the arrangements to have his utilities turned on.  When he had moved in, he would see about purchasing a new mobile phone and perhaps a new landline, and he would see about finding another NatWest bank to do business with.  And he would need to ring his IERO one more time, to let him know that he had moved into his new bedsit.

</p><p>FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>On early Friday afternoon, during her lunch break, Harry drove John to his new bedsit.  His utilities had been turned on that morning, so he could move in as soon as he was ready, and he had gone to a shop that morning to purchase some bedding for single beds and some towels, flannels, a toaster, and a first-aid kit, and he’d taken them all immediately to his new bedsit before returning to the house so he wouldn’t have to pack them when it was time to move.  His suitcase, duffle bag, and army pack, all of which had remained packed throughout his stay at her house, were in the boot of the car.  As soon as they arrived, John and Harry carried his possessions up the lift and into his new bedsit.

</p><p>Harry laid the suitcase and duffle bag on the bed, and John set the army pack on the desk chair.  With a sigh, he turned to Harry.  “Thanks, Harry,” he said.

</p><p>“You’re welcome, Johnny.”  Harry patted his arm, then furrowed her brow.  “Uh, where’s your phone?  I haven’t seen it since bringing you back to London.”

</p><p>John grimaced.  “It wore out while I was at Selly Oak.  I found that out when I tried to ring you from Headley Court.  I had to throw it away.  I’ll have to get me a new one now that I’ve moved in.”

</p><p>“Well…”  Harry reached into her pocket and removed her smartphone and its charger.  “I just got a new phone last week, Johnny, and I don’t want this one anymore, so I want you to have it.”  She handed the phone and charger to John.

</p><p>He set the charger on the desk and spent a long moment examining the phone carefully.  It was an N97 smartphone, and even though its outside was scratched, especially around the opening where the charger was plugged in, it was so much nicer than his old flip phone had been.  It had a touch screen slider with a full horizontal keyboard on which the keys were arranged as they would be on a desktop computer or a typewriter.  It had a lot more features than he would probably ever use.  He noticed that it had a message to Harry from Clara engraved on the back.

</p><p>Finally, John looked at his older sister, puzzled.  “You told me Clara gave you this phone just four months ago, Harry.  It was brand-new then.  Why would you get another new one now?”

</p><p>“I don’t want it anymore.  Too many memories.”  Harry shrugged.  “You need one, so you can have mine.  I know it’s scratched, Johnny, but you can still use it.  You’ll be able to text and ring people on it, and you’ll be able to use it to get the Internet and exchange emails and play MP3 music.”

</p><p>“I’ll have to set up a contract before I can do any of that.  I’m going to need to do that, anyway.  I’ll also have to set up my email account on it, afterward.”  John looked at her and smiled wanly.  “Thanks.  This’ll save me having to buy a new mobile.”  He laid it on the desk next to the charger and hooked it up to charge.

</p><p>Harry shrugged.  “Gotta go.  I got to get back to work.”  John nodded, and Harry left.

</p><p>Sighing again, John started unpacking his suitcase and duffle bag and putting their contents away.  In the process, he put his medical journals, medical textbooks, and paperback novels in the storage container at the foot of the bed and his clothes in the wardrobe and dresser.  He then placed his teapot, coffee pot, dishes, silverware, and mugs in the kitchen, storing some of them in the cabinets and drawers.  <i>I’ve got to go to the grocer’s and get some food.  Some toiletries, too,</i> he thought, as he left the kitchen and commenced making his bed.  <i>I’m going to have to watch my budget very carefully.  I’ll need to go to the cheapest shops I can find and watch for sales when they come out.  I need to start getting a newspaper so I can watch the ads.</i>

</p><p>He commenced making his new bed; his towels and flannels would have to remain in storage until he needed them to take a shower.  When he had finished that job and turned to his army pack, as soon as he unzipped it, he found his pistol and his box of bullets lying on top.  He froze in shock.

</p><p><i>I can’t keep these anymore!</i> John thought.  <i>I should have turned them in last Tuesday!  I completely forgot my gun and bullets were still in here!</i>

</p><p>Stumbling towards his single bed, he slumped down on its edge, leaning his cane against its side.  <i>What am I going to do?</i>  He sighed deeply and, leaning over, laid his face in his palms.  He took a deep, shuddering breath.  <i>And how am I gonna survive this?  Not being a soldier anymore?  </i>Or<i> a surgeon?!</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Reunions</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Despite all of John’s efforts to muddle through and hang in there, and despites his new therapist’s efforts to help him, he becomes more depressed by the day.  Only a few reunions with some old friends are able to help him.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this final chapter, you will find some dialogue from the episode, “A Study in Pink,” copied out of Ariane DeVere’s “A Study in Pink” transcript, as well as messages posted on John’s blog.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>7:00 p.m.

</p><p>The days that followed at John’s dreary new bedsit were no better than the first one had been.  Every day was endless and dull, and the nights were no better.  On his first day there, after Harry had left to go back to her shop and he had finished putting his things away, he laid his pistol and bullets in the bottom of the desk drawer and his laptop on top of them.  He left the rest of his army gear in the pack.  When he was done, the bedsit was still mostly bare.

</p><p>And so, John left the bedsit to run some errands.  He still needed phone and Internet service, and there were still some necessities he needed to get for his new home; he also needed to ring his IERO to let him know that he had moved into his new bedsit.  Fortunately, the weather was decent, so he didn’t have to worry about getting wet while running his errands.  It was partly cloudy as well as chilly; the sun had been coming in and out from behind the clouds for most of that day.  While leaning on his aluminium cane, John limped briskly past several junctions to the tube station, where he took the tube to a phone company, so that he could get a contract for his new mobile phone and find out if the contract could include a landline and Internet.  When he was finished there, he was able to use his new phone, and he had the option adding a landline to his phone contract, and of using the Internet on his phone and his laptop as well.

</p><p>When he left the phone company, John took the tube to a Boots shop to buy some toiletries and some other items he needed.  He purchased a heating pad for his shoulder, a package of cheap black pens, a tube of toothpaste, a few bars of soap, some toilet tissue, a box of hand tissue, a bottle of non-prescription painkiller, and some bottles of aftershave lotion, deodorant, shampoo, and body wash.  Afterward, John took the tube to a Sainsbury’s grocery shop to buy some food for the next week.  He purchased a loaf of bread, a tub of margarine, a jug of low-fat milk, a bag of red apples, a six-pack of beer, and some coffee and teabags, and then he took the tube back to the street he now lived on; managing to dangle all of his shopping bags from his left elbow while leaning on his cane with his right hand, he hobbled briskly back from the tube station to the red-brick block where his bedsit was located.  By then, the sun had set, and the clouds had cleared out, so he could see stars twinkling in the sky.

</p><p>When John entered the bedsit, it was approaching seven o’clock.  After he’d finished putting away his purchases, he logged out of Harry’s email account and set up the account that was already set up on his laptop, and then he did a search for NatWest banks in London until he found one that he was satisfied would be close enough, by tube.  At that point, he glanced down at his watch.  It was 7 p.m.

</p><p><i>I’ll go to that branch bank Monday morning, so I can withdraw some cash from it.  And since it’s too late, now, to ring my IERO, so I’ll do that on Monday, too.</i>

</p><p>SATURDAY, DECEMBER 5, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>7:00 a.m.

</p><p>On Saturday morning, John commenced performing daily mobility and dexterity exercises and practising his handwriting, in an effort to improve it and his ability to use his left hand.  He used his rubber therapy ball to perform some of the exercises.  Fortunately, he didn’t have to take a painkiller when he had finished his mobility exercises that morning; his shoulder felt only the now-normal dull residual pain that he had to live with anymore.  When he had finished those exercises, he took his pistol out of his desk and looked at it for a long moment before putting it back in the drawer.  A little later that day, he also started taking daily walks while using his aluminium cane, rain or shine, during which he would stop at a newspaper stand and buy a newspaper to take with him back to the bedsit.  Every day, he used his new heating pad to help ease the residual pain in his shoulder.  He also took a dose of the over-the-counter painkiller as often as needed.

</p><p>MONDAY, DECEMBER 7, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>9:00 a.m.

</p><p>On the morning of Monday, December 7th, after John had performed his mobility exercises and practiced his handwriting by copying sentences from one of his medical textbooks, he rang his IERO again, to tell him that he had moved into his new bedsit; during the phone call, the IERO made John promise that he would ring him again if he ever decided to move to another location.  When John had hung up, he took the tube again, this time to the NatWest branch bank in Lambeth North that he had chosen on Friday night, so that he could withdraw some cash.  It had rained hard during the night, so the streets and pavements were spattered with puddles, and it was cloudy.  John had started using NatWest during his first year of medical school, and he had no intention of changing banks now.  When he had filled out a withdrawal slip and used to it withdraw some money, he placed it in his wallet and returned to the tube station, where he took another tube to another shop to buy himself a landline phone.  He set it on his desk and hooked up as soon as he got back to his bedsit.  Fortunately, John was able to get his landline phone service through the same phone company that provided his mobile phone contract, so he was able to start using it as soon as he had hooked it up.  After he had done so, he called his utilities and phone companies to set up direct deposit.

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>Early that afternoon, at 1 p.m., John had his first weekly session with the psychotherapist that the regional occupational health team had chosen for him—an attractive black woman, Ella Thompson.  He had to take the tube all the way to Camden to see her; in the process, he had to change tubes twice, to reach his destination.  Therefore, he had to leave an hour early to make sure he arrived there on time.  Ella’s office was located not far from Russell Square.  Still, it was much closer than a military therapist’s office would have been; he would have had to take a taxi or an intercity bus to another city to see one, since there were currently no military therapists available in London whom he could see.  John could manage to afford tubes and—he hoped—city buses, but taxis and intercity buses were just too expensive, and out of his budget.  He would simply have to make do with a civilian therapist and hope that just maybe she could help him.  The shape of her office was closer to being a circle than the usual office’s square or rectangular shape.  At one point, he read upside-down the note that she wrote in her notebook about him: <i>‘apparent deep-seated trust issues’</i>. <b>(26)</b>  He bit back a snort.  <i>You have no idea!</i>  During that session, Ella recommended that he start keeping a blog about his activities and everything that happened to him.

</p><p>One thing she did during that session, for which John was very grateful, was to acknowledge the reality of the intense pain in his right leg whenever he tried to bear any weight on it without a cane.  Even though the cause appeared to be psychosomatic, the pain itself was very real, and she knew it.

</p><p>When his therapy session was over, John took a walk in Russell Square before heading towards the tube station; by then, the clouds had all moved out, so the sunlight was bright.  Upon his arrival back at his bedsit an hour after he had entered the tube station near Russell Square, he took a seat at his desk, opened his laptop, set up a new blog, and labelled it, <i>‘The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson’</i>.  But the days were still dull, grey, and endless, and for that reason, he could think of nothing to blog about.  He made no attempts to get to know anybody in the block or on that street, or to seek employment.  Unfortunately, the texts he kept receiving from Harry didn’t help him in the slightest, since they all consisted of ugly rants and accusations; it wasn’t hard to guess that she was drunk when she sent them.  He was in no rush to see her again.  Simply moving into his bedsit, getting things set up, walking, practicing his handwriting, and performing mobility exercises was not blogworthy material, he felt, and neither was seeing a therapist.  Therefore, he posted nothing, but closed the laptop and stood up.

</p><p>SATURDAY, DECEMBER 12, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>11:00 a.m.

</p><p>The days that followed were as tedious and endless as they had been up to that point.  More so, in fact, since the errands he’d had to run before and after moving into his new bedsit were all behind him now.  John did not hear again from his IERO, and when he attempted to ring him once on his landline phone during the following week, to request some advice as to what he should do now that he had moved into his bedsit, all he got was the IERO’s voicemail, which John did not bother leaving a message on.  Once later that week, John hobbled towards the pub to buy himself a pint.  Unlike the shops and the tube station, it was only a 10-minute walk from his bedsit.  While he sat at a booth there, leaning his cane against the bench and drinking his ale, he watched a rugby match on the telly.

</p><p>When John decided to do his laundry the following Saturday morning, he discovered that the washer and dryer in the basement were old, broken-down, and dilapidated.  Mr. Kalluri hadn’t been kidding when he’d told John that the two machines weren’t in the best of shape, and that he’d have to jiggle them to get them to work.  As a result, it was only with much difficulty that John was able to wash his dirty laundry at all that morning, and his intermittent hand tremor didn’t help matters, but with much effort, he was finally able to.

</p><p>Sitting on the edge of his single bed after he had put away his clean laundry a few hours later, John held the smartphone Harry had given him and gazed down at it.  At least, now that his phone service was up and running, he could start using it, although he hadn’t begun doing so on his mobile phone yet.  He hadn’t often used his flip phone in Afghanistan; he’d relied most often on emails, which he had exchanged on his laptop.  The phone company representative had told him that he could use his new mobile phone to text as well as make phone calls, and since it had Internet, he could also look things up on the Web and exchange emails on his phone.  He could even listen to MP3 music on it if he wanted to.  Texting was something John had no experience in doing.  He had never sent a text on his old flip phone, and he didn’t know if there would be any occasion for him to send a text on this one.  Unless Harry started sending him civil texts, he would not be sending her any.  Still, it <i>was</i> nice to have that option <i>and</i> the option of using his phone to exchange emails, if the need to do either should ever arise, and perhaps he <i>would</i> play some music on it sometime.  It was also nice to have the option of using his new landline if he chose.

</p><p>With a sigh, he used his cane to lever himself to his feet, hobbled toward the desk, and hooked the phone back to its charger.  Upon returning to his bed, he lay on his back, looking at the dull-green walls surrounding his bedroom and, once, at the radiator standing to the left of him, next to his bed.

</p><p><i>What am I going to do?</i> he wondered.  <i>My future is shot!  Everything I worked for—the career I worked so hard for—is over!  Gone!  I can never be Captain Watson again!  I can’t be a soldier anymore; I can’t be a surgeon anymore.  Thanks to those bloody seizures, I can no longer drive, either.  What good am I, anymore?  I’ve got nothing to live for now, and perhaps I never will again!</i>

</p><p>John didn’t know what he was going to do, or how he was going to deal with any of this.  He only had two living relatives, his older sister and a cousin he had never been close to.  He had no friends in London; all of his friends were in the army.  He had no decent job prospects; he had no desire to become a general practitioner.  He couldn’t afford a decent place to live; the bedsit was the best he could afford.  In fact, even in that dingy bedsit, he could barely afford food and housing on his army pension.  His shoulder was impaired, and probably always would be; so was his left hand’s fine-motor coordination.  Having to use that aluminium cane made him look and feel crippled, which he absolutely hated, and that hateful intermittent tremor in his dominant hand only made things worse.  And if all that wasn’t bad enough, he was having awful nightmares every night about the war; several times since moving into the bedsit, he had also had terrifying flashbacks.  He sighed and started pressing down his left fingertips with his right thumb, wishing the feeling would return to them.

</p><p>After several moments of brooding about his prospects and pressing his fingertips, John dropped his hands on the bed and glanced towards the kitchenette.  He had had a mug of coffee early that morning.  He had taken an apple out of the bag he’d purchased at Sainsbury’s the day he’d moved in, intending to have it for breakfast, but he couldn’t bring himself to take a single bite out of it.

</p><p>Sighing again, he closed his eyes.  He wasn’t hungry, and he didn’t feel like getting up and doing anything, so he may as well take a nap.  Perhaps he would make himself a cup of tea when he got up.  If he couldn’t bring himself to eat an apple, perhaps he would make himself a slice of toast.

</p><p>SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>7:05 a.m.

</p><p>Dressed in his nightclothes and his striped dressing gown, and holding in his left hand his RAMC mug, filled with steaming hot coffee, John limped toward the desk and pulled out the chair.  Lowering himself down onto it and leaning his cane against the desk, he removed his laptop from the drawer and set it on the desk.  And then, for a long moment, he gazed at his pistol resting in the bottom of the drawer, and then took it out and held it.  Every morning since he had moved in, he had done that; every morning, he had seriously considered using it to blow his brains out.  At last, with a sigh, he would set it back in the drawer and shut it.

</p><p>This time was no different.  For a long moment, John gazed intently at his pistol, rubbing his right fingers over it since his left fingers could barely feel it, and pondering what it would be like to be free of his miseries, his demons.  <i>I’m no good.  I may as well kill myself.  It’s not as if anyone’s really going to miss me if I do this,</i> he thought.  <i>Harry’s drunk most of the time; every text I’ve received from her since I moved into this bedsit has been a rant, accusing me of letting her down, of abandoning her when I joined the army.  The two times she’s rung me, she’s been drunk and belligerent.  She hasn’t been back to see me once since she brought me here on moving day.  Our cousin never comes down to London to see Harry </i>or<i> me.  I have no friends here, either.  I have no one else.</i>

</p><p>With a heavy sigh, he placed the pistol back in the drawer and closed it.  He would not use it just yet.  Not today.

</p><p>Sighing again, John opened his laptop and pulled up his blog.  For the next several moments, he just sat there with his elbows on his desk, clasping his hands together and staring at the empty post window and the blinking cursor on the laptop screen.  He could not think of anything to post, nothing that anyone would even be interested in reading.  Ella had urged him to start using his new blog to share everything that happened to him.  Up to that point, though, there had been nothing for him to blog about.  He had no intention of blogging about his therapy sessions, the nightmares that plagued him every night, the flashbacks he periodically endured by day, his suicidal feelings, or his feelings of loneliness, hopelessness, and worthlessness.  That really left him nothing to blog about.  Now that John was settled in, all he ever did was talk a walk every morning, practice his handwriting, perform his daily mobility and dexterity exercises, read a newspaper, and take a nap; once a week, he would be seeing Ella, for all the good that would do.  Nobody would be interested in reading about any of those activities.  He never saw anybody except Ella, and except for Harry’s texts and phone calls, all of which were unpleasant, nobody rang or texted him either.  Not even his IERO had been back in touch with him since John had rung him to bring him up to date on his move.  Therefore, he had nothing to blog about there, either. 

</p><p>With yet another sigh, he closed his laptop and took a swallow of his coffee.  After he'd set his RAMC mug back on the desk, he used his cane to lever himself up on his feet to get dressed.

</p><p>MONDAY, DECEMBER 14, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>1:00 a.m.

</p><p><i>John was dreaming about excerpts from two retrieval missions in Afghanistan, one of which was the one in which he had been shot.  In both excerpts, the team whom he and Murray had joined to help retrieve the wounded was under fire.  In one such excerpt, as the gunfire continued, a colleague cried out, “Watson!”  A few seconds later, Corporal Ryan dropped down on his stomach, having been felled by a bullet.</i>

</p><p>In that instant, John jolted awake, distressed and panic-stricken.  He shot up in bed, wide-eyed and breathing heavily, until he realised that he was safe and a long way from the war.  Flopping back onto his mattress with his right hand just under the top of his head, he spent some time trying to calm his breathing as he continued to be haunted by his memories.  Eventually, unable to stop himself, he began to weep silently.  How many more of those horrible nightmares was he going to be forced to endure?  And the equally horrible flashbacks?

</p><p>Eventually, with a heavy sigh, John pushed back the bed covers and swung his legs over the side of the single bed; sighing again, he switched the bedside lamp on.  He glanced briefly at the white curtain covering the part of the window that wasn’t covered by the drapes; it was still nightfall.  It would not be dawn for another several hours.  Sitting quietly on the edge of the bed with his hands clasped on his lap, and still wrapped up in his thoughts, John looked across to the desk on the other side of the bedroom.  His aluminium walking cane was leaning against the desk; he had left it there at bedtime and stumbled painfully towards his bed.  He looked at the cane unhappily, and then continued to gaze into the distance.

</p><p><i>I won’t be sleeping anymore, tonight,</i> he thought.  <i>Just as well my nightmare ended where it did, instead of going on to take me through the bloody IED tearing apart Corporal Ryan's leg, </i>and<i> that bloody insurgent shooting me while Murray and I were treating the corporal!</i>  John lowered his head and gazed unseeing down at his clasped hands resting on his thighs.  He just sat there on his bed until sunrise was approaching, brooding the whole time, a heavy load of misery in his gut.

</p><p>7:30 a.m.

</p><p>John had just got up off his bed.  He stumbled across the room towards his desk, wincing as the unbearable pain shot through his leg, and grabbed hold of his walking cane.  Leaning on his cane, he slowly hobbled towards the wardrobe to put on his striped dressing gown and his slippers; after he had tied his dressing gownin front of his waist, he limped into the kitchenette to make himself some coffee.  He saw no use in getting out any food, since he didn’t feel like eating anyway.  He would get on his laptop when his coffee was ready.

</p><p>Unfortunately, his left hand began to shake as he was pouring the steaming-hot coffee, causing him to spill some of it on the counter; cursing, he set the coffee pot down and got a paper towel to wipe the mess up.  At least, none of it had spilled on his hand this time, so there would be no second-degree burns to have to treat.  He leaned against the counter for a long moment, taking deep breaths, stretching his fingers out as far as they would go and then clenching his hand, and waiting for the hand tremor to stop.

</p><p>Minutes later, having changed his mind about the food, and somehow managing to hold an apple and his RAMC mug in his left hand as usual, he limped towards the desk and sat down.  As usual, he opened the desk drawer and withdrew his laptop from his desk, and then he gazed down for a long moment at his pistol, tempted to take it out and use it.  Finally, instead of taking it out this time, he firmly closed the drawer.  Opening the laptop, he waited for it to load, and then pulled up his blog.

</p><p>Once again, he sat there in his hardback desk chair for long minutes with his elbows on the desk and his closed lips leaning on his clasped hands, gazing at the empty message box and its blinking cursor.  He took occasional sips of the gradually cooling coffee, but ignored the apple.  He was unable to take a bite or think of a single thing to post.  As usual, nothing had happened that was worth blogging about.

</p><p>Finally, with a sigh, he folded the laptop and leaned back in his desk chair.  He wouldn’t be posting anything that morning.  Ella would not be pleased when she found out during his session later that morning, he knew.

</p><p>Using the cane to lever himself up on his feet, John returned the apple to the kitchen and set it on a counter, and then he approached the wardrobe and took out the clothes that he was going to wear that day: a neutral dark-coloured jumper and a white-and-black-checked button-down shirt underneath it.  Returning to his single bed, he proceeded to get dressed; as soon as he had put his shoes on, he put his wallet and keys in his front jeans pocket, put on his canvas jacket, and left his bedsit.  He was going to take a walk before he got ready to go to his therapy appointment at 11:00.

</p><p>9:00 a.m.

</p><p>John bought a newspaper while he was out walking; when he had returned to his bedsit, he took his shoes and jacket off and sat down on the chair near the bed, reading it.  Once John had finished reading the paper and going over the shop ads, he lay down on his bed, moping and pressing his left fingertips with his right thumb, until it was time to get ready to go to his weekly therapy appointment with Ella.

</p><p>With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of his bed, used his cane to lever himself to his feet, and put on his shoes and socks; it was almost time to leave.  When he’d finished putting them on, he put on his black Haversack shooting jacket.  While he’d been in medical school at King’s College London, he had bought that jacket and his canvas jacket second-hand at Oxfam; the shooting jacket was made out of a combination of cotton and synthetic leather.  Then, leaning on his cane again, he hobbled back out the door.  It would be a lengthy tube ride to get to Ella’s office, requiring two changes of tubes in the process, and as always, it was necessary to get an early start if he wanted to be sure of getting there on time.

</p><p>11:10 a.m.

</p><p>“How’s your blog going?” Ella asked him at one point, during his therapy session, as the two of them sat facing each other in comfortable dark-brown armchairs.  A notebook lay open in her lap, alongside a pen.

</p><p>“Yeah, good.”  Rubbing the tips of his left hand’s index finger and thumb together while resting both arms on the armrests, John cleared his throat awkwardly.  “Very good.”

</p><p>Ella gave him a knowing look.  “You haven’t written a word, have you?”  She wrote something in her notebook, which John managed to read upside-down from his vantage point.

</p><p>He pointed at Ella’s notepad on her lap.  “You just wrote, <i>‘Still has trust issues.’</i>”

</p><p>“And you read my writing upside-down,” Ella pointed out, pointing a finger at him for good measure.  “D’you see what I mean?”  A slight, awkward smile crept across John’s face, but there was no smile in his heart.

</p><p>Laying her pencil on her notebook, Ella added earnestly, “John, you’re a soldier, and it’s gonna take you a while to adjust to civilian life.  And writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you.”

</p><p>John simply gazed back at her with his heart full of despair.  He knew that the despair and bleakness was etched on his face.  It was time to be honest with her.  “<i>Nothing</i> happens to me.”

</p><p>The session did not go any better after that.  When it was time for him to leave, he gave Ella a polite good-bye as usual, took his Haversack jacket off the hook on her office door, and put it back on; he limped out the door, leaning heavily on his walking cane as he always did.  As usual, he took a brisk walk in Russell Square, his shoulder throbbing intensely once more, before going back to the tube station and returning to his bedsit.

</p><p>Back at his bedsit, as soon as he had hung up his Haversack jacket, John took a dose of his non-prescription painkiller to ease the intense throbbing in his shoulder and made himself another cup of coffee, but as before, he did not even touch the apple again, but left it on the kitchen counter.  The throbbing soon subsided.  As soon as he had put his RAMC mug back in the sink and filled it with water, he thought of taking another walk and dismissed the idea.  He didn’t feel like leaving his bedsit again, just then.  There was nothing to do, anyway, except go to the pub.  Maybe he would go there that evening.  There was usually a sports event on the telly there; since he had nothing better to do, and since he didn’t have a telly or a wireless in his bedsit, at least it would kill some time.

</p><p>Meanwhile, he may as well type <i>something</i> on his blog, just so Ella would be satisfied that he had done so.  Sitting down and pulling his blog up to the post window, John slowly typed hunt-and-peck <b><i>‘Nothing’</i></b> for the heading, and underneath it in the message box, the same word.  That was all he could think of to type.  He clicked on <i>‘send’</i>, and the word appeared on the blog window.

</p><p><i>‘Nothing’ is exactly right,’</i> he thought dully, as he took a swallow of his coffee.  Setting it back on the desk, he used his cane to lever himself up on his feet to change his shirt.

</p><p>TUESDAY, DECEMBER 15, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>After removing his laptop and pistol out of his drawer as usual, John spent several minutes leaning back in his hardback desk chair and holding the pistol, debating whether to take his own life with it or not.  Finally, with a sigh, he put it back in the drawer, shut it, and opened his laptop, pulling up his blog.  He spent another several minutes trying to decide what, if anything, to post about.  At last, with another sigh, he typed in the heading box, <b><i>‘Pointless’</i></b>; in the message box, he typed, <b><i>‘Nothing happens to me.’</i></b>  At that point, he clicked on <i>‘send’</i>.  The message, such as it was, appeared on the blog screen for all to read.  With one more sigh before he got up, John closed the laptop.  <i>As if anybody’s even gonna care!</i>  Pursing his lower lip, he opened his drawer and took out the pistol again.  For more long minutes, he sat gazing at it a second time and seriously considered using it on himself.

</p><p>At last, he opened the drawer once more and put the pistol back inside.  Not yet.  Not just yet.  He would muddle through for a while longer.  He wasn’t quite ready to end his life just yet.

</p><p>Shaking his head, John took hold of his cane and levered himself to his feet.  After taking his RAMC mug back to the kitchen, setting it in the sink, and rinsing it out, he hobbled towards the wardrobe to take out the clothes he was going to wear that day.  As soon as he opened the wardrobe door, he spent a long moment gazing at his second-hand No. 2 uniform on the hanger and the beret he had laid above it on the closet shelf.  At last, he shook his head.  <i>I will </i>never<i> get to wear my uniform again!</i>

</p><p>With yet another despondent sigh, he took out a white T-shirt, a white-and-grey checked button-down shirt, and a cream-coloured jumper, followed by a pair of blue jeans, and then he withdrew a pair of boxers from his dresser.  It was time he was getting dressed.

</p><p>It was another endless dull and tedious day.  As soon as John had finished putting his clothes on, he performed his mobility exercises and spent some time practising his handwriting.  Once it was light outside, he put his shoes and socks on, donned his canvas jacket, and limped out into the hall and toward the lift, leaning on his aluminium cane.  It was time for his daily walk.

</p><p>An hour later, holding a paper that he had bought from a newspaper stand and once more enduring the dull throbbing in his left shoulder, he returned to his bedsit, where he took a dose of his OTC painkiller and then spent the next half-hour reading the paper.  Just the usual so-and-so, some of it political, some of it about sports, some of it about the war in Afghanistan, and some of it having to do with the peccadilloes of high society.  And there were the classified ads and the shop ads.  At last, with a sigh, he folded it, dumped it in the garbage bin, and lay down on his single bed for a nap.

</p><p>5:50 p.m.

</p><p>John spent the next several hours just lying on his bed in a heavy state of gloom; when he wasn’t asleep, he kept thinking about nothing in particular and pressing down on his left fingertips with his right thumb.  He didn’t feel like doing anything else.  At last, with a sigh, he glanced at his watch and swung his legs over the side of his bed, grabbing his cane in the process and levering himself up on his feet.  He may as well get back on his laptop.  John gazed at the curtain-covered window.  It was evident from the quality of the sunshine coming in that it was now late afternoon.  He glanced down at his watch and hobbled towards his desk.

</p><p>Sitting down, John opened the laptop and pulled up his blog; to his amazement, he saw that the hit counter had risen from <i>‘0’</i> to <i>‘3’</i>.  This was the first time that anybody had even bothered to pull it up.  Furthermore, there was a comment listed underneath that morning’s posting.  Curious, John clicked on the heading to open the posting.  Who on earth could have posted a reply to his blog message?

</p><p>A message appeared under his entry.  It read, <b><i>‘Hi John.  I tried emailing you but it bounced back.  how are things?  I'm in London t the end of the month.  Do you fancy meeting up?’</i></b>  It was signed, <b><i>‘Bill Murray’</i></b>.  Since Murray’s reply was set to army time, the time at which the blog had appeared was 17.46—5:46 local time—so Bill had posted just a few minutes before.

</p><p>John leaned back in his hardback chair, stunned.  He had not seen Bill since the latter had visited him at Selly Oak back in September.  Was Bill in London on leave?  Opening his email inbox, he cleared out a chunk of his inbox so that he could exchange emails once more, and then he sent Bill an email, asking him when a good time for Bill to come by would be.  Within minutes, he received a reply.  After reading it, he sent Bill his new address and suggested that they meet at the nearby pub at 1 p.m. that coming Saturday, and he included the name and address of that pub.  Closing out his inbox, he got back up on his feet and left the bedsit to go to the pub.  <i>Might as well get myself a pint and watch a rugby match.</i>  A bitter smile crept across his face. <i> Shall I put </i>that<i> on my blog?!</i>

</p><p>SATURDAY, DECEMBER 19, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>1:00 p.m.

</p><p>“Hey, John!”  With a pleased smile, Bill rose to his feet to greet him from one of the wooden booths, as John hobbled briskly into the pub.  Bill was dressed in civilian clothes, John noticed: a light-brown button-down shirt and a pair of blue jeans.  “So good to see you!”

</p><p>John tried to smile, although there was no smile in his heart.  “Good to see you, too, Bill.  It’s been a few months.”  The two of them sat down on the benches sandwiching the booth Bill had chosen; Bill was facing the entrance.  John leaned against the hard wooden back of the bench facing Bill.  “Are you on leave?”

</p><p>Bill shook his head.  “Nope, I’ve mustered out.  I’ve decided it’s time I went onto other things.  Got my discharge papers late last month.  I’ve just got a nurse’s job at a surgery in Newbury; I’ll start work there in the New Year.  At the moment, I’m staying at a hostel in Lambeth, but I’m just staying there until I get myself a two-bedroom flat in Newbury.”

</p><p>John nodded.  “Congratulations.”

</p><p>A broad smile spread across Bill’s face.  “That’s not all.  I’m engaged, John!  Getting married late next month.”

</p><p>John made a stronger effort to smile at his former nurse, and to put some warmth into his voice.  “Congratulations, Bill!  That’s good news.”

</p><p>“I think so.”  Still smiling, Bill withdrew his brown leather wallet from his jeans pocket and opened it to show John a photograph.  “This is my fiancée.  Her name is Mary Hughes.  She was born and grew up in Newbury, and she came here to attend uni at London University.  She graduated last spring.”

</p><p>John gazed down at the photo.  “She’s very lovely.”  He meant it.  Mary was indeed a lovely woman.

</p><p>“She sure is.”  Bill’s smile turned fond.  “The wedding date is set for the fourth week of next month in Newbury.”  He looked at John.  “Speaking of which, what are your plans for New Year’s—and Christmas, for that matter?  And how are you doing now, since I saw you last?”

</p><p>John sat there silently for a moment.  “I’m seeing a therapist,” he finally said, and volunteered no more.  Bill nodded, looking serious, and a waitress brought a couple of glasses of beer to their table.  John spent the next several minutes resting his right hand on the edge of the wooden table, sipping his beer with his left hand, and saying nothing more; fortunately, his hand remained steady, that time.  Bill sipped his own beer and watched John, concern in his eyes.  It was evident to John that he was not doing a very good job of fooling his former army nurse.

</p><p>“Have you seen any old friends since coming back to London?” Bill finally asked.

</p><p>John shook his head.  “I stayed with Harry when I first came here, while I was getting situated, and she took me to my bedsit when it was time to move in, but you’re the first visitor I’ve had since moving there.  I haven’t run into any old acquaintances.”  Bill said no more, but furrowed his brow in concern.

</p><p>MONDAY, DECEMBER 21, 2009: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>2:00 p.m.

</p><p>Even though Bill was going to stay in London until New Year’s, because of a seminar he was scheduled to attend during his stay there, and because he was going to spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day in Newbury with his fiancée’s family, he only had a few days to visit with John before his Christmas visit with Mary Hughes’s family, and before the seminar began.  The two of them spent some time together every day during that time, at John’s bedsit and at the hostel in Lambeth where Bill was staying; they also went back to the pub not far from John’s bedsit.  During their second visit to the pub, John was compelled to switch his ale to his right hand when his left hand started trembling; he immediately stretched his fingers out as far as they would go and clenched his left hand several times before relaxing it.  More than once, at his bedsit, he also suffered one of his flashbacks while he was with Bill; the latter managed to bring him out of each one.  At the bedsit, he offered Bill refreshments, but while Bill ate an apple and a slice of toast and drank his coffee, all that John did was drink his own mug of coffee; he didn’t even touch the apple that he had taken out of the fridge that morning.  John was unable to hide his hand tremors from Bill whenever they came on in Bill’s presence.  Over and over, as he so often did, he stretched his fingers out as far as they would go and then clenched his left fist tightly several times to make the tremor stop, and in a vain attempt to restore feeling to his hand, after which he rubbed his fingers and pressed down on his fingertips with his right thumb.

</p><p>“I can’t quite feel my fingers anymore.  They’re tingly and kind of numb,” he told Bill at one point, who winced and shook his head, sorrow in his eyes.  On another occasion, while Bill was with him, John took a dose of his painkiller to ease the residual pain in his shoulder.

</p><p>At last, on late Wednesday afternoon, it was time for Bill to leave for Newbury.  He would spend Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with his fiancée’s family, and then the seminar was scheduled to start the day after Christmas.  “It was good to see you again, Bill,” John said, shaking his hand.

</p><p>“And you, too, John.”  Bill smiled.  “I’ll let you know when Mary and I are settled, OK?  Maybe we’ll get together again next month, when we’re done moving.”

</p><p>John smiled wanly.  “That sounds good.”  With a nod, Bill left.

</p><p>MONDAY, JANUARY 25, 2010: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>Over a month had passed since Bill had come by to visit John.  Except for a visit with Harry at her rented house in Camden on Christmas Day, and a reunion with some rugby guys from Blackheath at the pub almost a month later, on Sunday, January 24th, John had seen no one except Ella during his weekly therapy sessions.  He still had not heard back from his IERO, and none of the other support services had got in touch with him.  After that first failed attempt to contact his IERO after he had rung him and brought him up to date on his move, John had made only a few more attempts to contact him for the rest of December, and had got his voice mail every time.  Twice, during the last week of December, John had left a message on his IERO’s voice mail, but his IERO had never returned either call.  John had made no more attempts to get in touch with his IERO since December had ended.

</p><p>His blog postings remained intermittent and short; he had received intermittent responses, some of them from Harry.  On Thursday, January 21st, John had posted another message on his blog.  In the heading bar, he had typed, <b><i>‘Happy now?’</i></b>  In the message box, he had added, <b><i>‘Look Ella.  I'm writing my blog.’</i></b>

</p><p>That afternoon, at 1:46, Harry had posted a reply: <b><i>‘Who's Ella??  You got yourself a woman at last?  What's she like?xx x  Send a pic!!’</i></b>  He hadn’t posted a reply.  He hadn’t told Harry about the therapist that the regional occupational health team had assigned him to see, or about any of his therapy appointments with her, and he had no inclination to tell her now.  (He also continued to receive phone texts from her; however, they had finally switched from angry rants and accusations to requests for money and pleas that he come by and visit her again.)

</p><p><i><b>‘Met up with some of the rugby lads from Blackheath last night,’</b></i> John typed, on the morning of January 25th.  <b><i>‘They haven't changed.  Still downing pints like they're in the twenties.  Still all taking the mick out of each other.  None of them mentioned my leg.’</i></b>  And that had been such a relief.  He was so ashamed of that limp and that cane, especially when he was in public.  Unfortunately, he had forgot his phone when it had been time to leave the pub.  He would have to go back there to get it that day.  It was the longest message he had typed on his blog since he had first set it up.

</p><p>John took a lengthy walk late that afternoon, stopping at the pub to reclaim his phone (only to find a message on his voicemail from Ella about his missed appointment earlier that day).  His shoulder had started forecasting a change in the weather while he’d been out walking, and it had started to rain when he'd entered the block; he could hear the rain drumming the window as he took a dose of his OTC painkiller in his bedsit and typed a reply on his blog.  Afterward, he spent the evening mostly lying on his bed, thinking about nothing in particular and brooding once again.

</p><p>When he got up to check his blog again, he found a reply from Ella, which she had posted at 10:11: <b><i>‘Is that why you missed your appointment?  I tried to call.’</i></b>

</p><p>He posted a response: <b><i>‘Left my phone in the pub.Sorry.’</i></b>

</p><p>He received a second reply from Harry early that evening: <b><i>‘Are we meeting up soon?!’</i></b>  He didn’t bother responding to that one when he read it.  He was in no hurry to see her again; he never knew when his older sister was going to be drunk when he next saw her.

</p><p>It had been just another endless dull day like any other.  It ended with yet another terrifying nightmare when he slept that night.

</p><p>John wasn’t sure how many more such days, and how many more of those nightmares and flashbacks, that he would be able to endure.  If he could just hold on until Bill came to see him again, maybe that would help.  He hoped.

</p><p>THURSDAY, JANUARY 28, 2010: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>10:45 a.m.

</p><p><b><i>‘There's been another of those 'serial suicides',’</i></b> John typed in his blog three days later, on Thursday morning.  It was storming outside, and the clouds were dark; as he finished typing that sentence, he overheard an ear-splitting crack of thunder nearby, making him jump in his seat in startlement.  He had had to take a dose of his over-the-counter painkiller before sitting down at his desk.  A moment later, he typed, <b><i>‘It's weird.  There doesn't seem to be any connection between the deceased.  It doesn't make sense.’</i></b>  Over the past two months, he’d been reading in the paper he bought from the newspaper stand about a few suicides taking place in abandoned places by people who were supposedly stable, and entirely different from one another.  He had learned about the first of those suicides while watching the news on the telly on October 12th, while he had been undergoing his initial rehab at Selly Oak, and he had read about the latest such suicide in that morning’s newspaper.  It had happened the night before.

</p><p><i>Three of them, so far, since last October,</i> he thought, shaking his head.  <i>I wonder why!</i>  With a sigh, he turned his attention back to his blog.

</p><p><b><i>‘Met up with Bill Murray,’</i></b> John continued typing. <b><i> ‘Not the film star.  He was the nurse who saved my life when I was shot.  He's got married.’</i></b>  Bill had paid him another visit just two days before, during a brief visit to London; that time, he’d been wearing a wedding ring.  He had shown John some of the wedding photos that had been taken of himself and his bride at their wedding in Newbury, and he had told John all about his wedding and the subsequent reception.

</p><p>John finished his blog entry with <b><i>‘Stuff's happening to other people.’</i></b>  Sighing, he hit <i>‘enter’</i> again, and the entry appeared on the blog screen.  A moment later, a bolt of lightning appeared out the window, and there was another ear-splitting thunder crack.  <i>Guess I won’t be taking a walk outside this morning.  Not while it’s storming, anyway.</i>

</p><p>Biting his lower lip, John levered himself off his desk chair and hobbled toward his bed.  With a groan, he sat down on it and gazed down at his hands in his lap, and then started pressing down on his left fingertips with his right thumb.  As usual, there was practically no feeling in them.  <i>There’s going to be another suicide very soon, and it probably won’t even get reported.  Mine, and it won’t be done with poison, either.  I just can’t take it anymore.</i>

</p><p>He looked at the desk drawer, where he kept his pistol.  He had already made his decision.  All that remained was to choose the date; it would be very soon.  When the moment came, he would use that pistol.  At least he had no appointment until the next day, so he could spend the rest of that day doing nothing.  Two days after his missed therapy appointment, he had switched his therapy sessions to Fridays for the time being.  With a sigh, he lay down, gazing up at the ceiling.  He didn’t feel like doing anything.

</p><p>Something that Dr. McLemore had told him, not long after it had first become apparent that he might well be discharged, came back to him: <i>“You won’t be forced to face it alone, John, whatever the Medical Board recommends, and whatever the Army Personnel Centre—</i>and<i> the General Medical Council—decide.  If you </i>are<i> discharged, you will have the assistance of rehabilitation and support services to help you through the change from army doctor to civilian.”</i>

</p><p>John snorted.  “Some support they’re giving me!” he told himself.  Silently, he added, <i>Is support supposed to consist solely of weekly therapy?  If so, they’re not doing a very good job!  Ella’s not even able to help me, and my IERO’s made no attempt to stay in touch with me since I told him I had moved to my bedsit.  He never even answered either of my voice-mail messages last month; the only time he was ever available to take any of my calls was when I had moved into my bedsit the Friday before.  I haven’t been able to get hold of him since.  All the support I received, I got while I was at Selly Oak and Headley Court!</i>  He sighed.  <i>Except for my referral to Ella Thompson, and my therapy sessions with her, I haven’t received </i>any<i> support since coming here.  I may as well not even </i>be<i> seeing her, for all the good she’s doing me.</i>  He shook his head.  <i>Still, she </i>is<i> trying; I’ve got to give her that.  It’s not her fault I’m such a difficult patient.</i>

</p><p>John lay on his bed for the next several hours, getting up only to get himself an apple, which he didn’t eat, and a mug of coffee, which he sipped until the mug was empty.  When 6:30 approached that evening, he got up for the second time and approached his desk.  Opening his laptop and pulling up his blog again, he discovered that the number on the hit counter had increased a little, and that there were four comments below his entry, all of which he commenced reading.

</p><p><b><i>‘Great to see you again, mate,’</i></b> Bill had posted at 11:46, that morning.  <b><i>‘And you should come down and meet the Mrs.  Just remember she's mine, Casanova!’</i></b>  Despite John’s suicidal despondency, an amused smile crept across his face at that remark; in his mind’s ear, he could hear the teasing in Bill’s voice.  Bill had used to tease him about being a ladies’ man back at King’s College, while he’d been a senior house officer at Barts Hospital, and then later in Afghanistan.

</p><p>Early that afternoon, at 1:36, his own sister had posted in response, <b><i>‘Casanova??!  My brother?!?!.’</i></b>

</p><p>Bill had replied several hours later, at 5:56, <b><i>‘Oh yeah.  The things he got up to before we went out to A.  Dirty boy!’</i></b>

</p><p>Harry’s reply had followed at 6:12: <b><i>‘HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!’</i></b>

</p><p>Snorting, John rolled his eyes.  Bill knew him better than that; he had never been anything other than a gentleman with the women he’d dated, and Bill knew that.  For a moment, John thought about posting his own retort to their wisecracking comments, and then decided against it.  Shaking his head, he closed the laptop and returned to his bed.  Perhaps he should go to bed.  Only trouble was that to go to bed was to bring on the nightmares, and John was not looking forward to another one of those.  With a sigh, he took a dose of painkiller and hobbled towards the dresser to change into his night clothes and get out his heating pad.  He would plug it in and set it under his left shoulder that night.  Hopefully, it would continue to ease the pain after the painkiller had worn off.

</p><p>FRIDAY, JANUARY 29, 2010: LONDON, ENGLAND

</p><p>12:00 p.m.

</p><p>At noon the following day, John, who had just finished his weekly therapy session with Ella, was taking his usual post-therapy walk in Russell Square.  Only a few white fluffy clouds floated in the sky.  There were some other people taking their walks there, as well as a couple of people seated on two of the park benches.  John paid no attention to any of them.  Pigeons were moving about on the grass, looking for insects to eat.  As always, John limped briskly on the walking trails through Russell Square, leaning heavily on his walking cane.  He was wearing another of his white-and-black checked shirts and his canvas jacket.  After several hours, the residual pain was back in his shoulder.  He hobbled on grimly and determinedly.

</p><p>John had finally reached the end of his rope.  He could endure none of it any longer.  The lack of true support, the lack of any decent job prospects, the feeling of worthlessness, the hopelessness, the dull, endless days, the nightmares night after night, the flashbacks he sometimes endured during the day, the intense loneliness that was only occasionally alleviated—all of it had got to be too much for him.  Early that morning, immediately after he’d got out of his bed, he had made up his mind.  As soon as John arrived back at his bedsit, he was going to make sure the pistol was loaded, write a note to leave for Harry, and then put a bullet in his brain.  More than one, if necessary.  Even though his shoulder was throbbing dully once more, perhaps he wouldn’t even bother taking his painkiller first.  If he was going to die anyway, there was no point in it.  Once he was dead, he would be past feeling any pain, ever.

</p><p>“John!” a man’s voice called out immediately after John had hobbled briskly past a park bench; he kept limping doggedly and kept looking ahead.  A second later, the man added, “John Watson!”  Startled, John turned backwards towards the unfamiliar plump, brown-haired man and came to a stop after the latter had risen from the wooden park bench that he’d been sitting on and was now approaching John.  The former army doctor saw that the unfamiliar man had on a suit and a light brown overcoat, and was wearing glasses.  Clearly, the man recognized John, but John could not recognize him, whoever he was.  With a smile, the man hurried toward John.

</p><p>“Stamford!” he introduced himself.  “Mike Stamford!  We were at Barts together.”  He held his right hand in front of his chest as he spoke.

</p><p>“Yes, sorry, yes, Mike,” John said; he remembered Mike from his days at King’s College and as house officer, except Mike had been thin back in those days, and he hadn’t needed to wear glasses.  Taking Mike’s hand, he shook it, even as he looked everywhere except at Mike while he did so.  He didn’t especially feel like having a reunion with any former companions at that moment, but he wasn’t going to be rude.  “Hello, hi.”

</p><p>With a grin, Mike gestured toward himself.  “Yeah, I know.  I got fat!”

</p><p><i>I noticed,</i> John thought wryly.  It wouldn’t be polite to say so, he knew.  In an attempt to sound convincing, he said, “No.”

</p><p>“I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at,” Mike said.  “What happened?”

</p><p>Awkwardly, John answered, “I got shot.”

</p><p>Mike looked as embarrassed as John felt.  “Oh, OK.  Sorry to hear that, John.”  He glanced down at John’s aluminium cane.  “Well, uh, here.  Have a seat,” he said in a no-nonsense voice, gesturing toward the bench he’d been sitting on when John had limped past him.  “I’ll get us both some coffee.  Milk and no sugar, right?  I remember that’s how you used to take your coffee.”  Without waiting for a reply, he hurried toward a nearby Criterion coffee vendor; with a shrug, John limped toward the park bench and sat down.  Why not?  It was his last day of life, anyway; he may as well spend some time with an old uni and house officer mate before he killed himself.  At least Mike remembered how John had always taken his coffee back at King’s College, and during their days as junior and senior house officers.

</p><p>A few minutes later, Mike returned with two Styrofoam containers of take-away coffee and handed one of them to John before sitting down next to him on the bench.  They spent the next few minutes in silence, sipping their coffees.  John’s coffee was just the way he liked it.

</p><p>“Are you still at Barts, then?” he asked, as soon as he had taken yet another sip of his coffee.  As depressed and bitter as he was, he didn’t need to be taking it out on Mikee.  The least he could do was be polite.

</p><p>“Teaching now,” Mike answered, and John nodded.  “Bright young things, like we used to be.  G__, I hate them!”  He and John laughed.  Looking at John, Mike asked, “What about you?  Just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?”

</p><p>“I can’t afford London on an Army pension,” John answered, and that was the truth.  Even with a cheap bedsit in a dodgy neighbourhood, it was all that he, an ex-army doctor on an army pension, could do to afford food and housing.  He sure couldn’t afford any place that was decent.  Not in London, anyway.  And yet, he had no desire to leave the city.

</p><p>“Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else,” Mike said knowingly.  “That’s not the John Watson <i>I</i> know.”

</p><p>Feeling uncomfortable, John shot back bitterly, “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…”  He stopped short, not sure how to finish that sentence.  At any rate, he had no desire to go into any of that.  Mike awkwardly looked away and took another sip of his coffee.  John’s left hand was trembling badly again, so he switched his own cup to his right hand and looked down at his left hand.  He stretched his fingers out and then briefly clenched his hand into a tight fist and unclenched it repeatedly, as he tried for the umpteenth time to control the tremor that had once again just started.

</p><p>“Couldn’t Harry help?” Mike asked.

</p><p>With a snort, John gave Mike a look.  “Yeah, like <i>that’s</i> gonna happen!”  It was true.  While Harry <i>had</i> grudgingly driven to Headley Court to pick him up and take him to London on the day of his medical discharge, had offered him a bed in her house while he was getting situated, and then had transported him to his new bedsit and given him her old smartphone on the day of his move, he knew that he could not depend on her for any sustained assistance.

</p><p>Mike shrugged.  “I dunno—get a flat share or something?”

</p><p>“Come on—who’d want <i>me</i> for a flatmate?”  John looked back at Mike as he spoke.  He couldn’t imagine anybody wanting to room with <i>him</i>.  Mike chuckled thoughtfully, and John looked at him, puzzled.  “What?”

</p><p>“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

</p><p>Now John was intrigued.  “Who was the first?”  A breeze suddenly picked up, and John set his Styrofoam container firmly between his thighs on the seat of the bench and wrapped his canvas jacket more tightly around himself.

</p><p>“Oh, just someone I know, someone who goes to Barts a lot.  Not a student, though.”  Mike shrugged.  “He’s needing a flatmate, and he told me the very same thing earlier this morning.”  He looked intently at John.  “Why don’t you come with me to meet him, John?  He needs a flatmate; you need a flatmate.  What have you got to lose?”

</p><p>With his own shrug, John returned his coffee to his left hand.  “Sure.”  He shrugged again.  “Why not?”

</p><p>Why not, indeed?  What <i>did</i> he have to lose?  It wasn’t as if there was any real chance that this friend of Mike’s would want him as a flatmate, anyway, and he could always return to his bedsit and use the pistol on himself afterwards.  The two of them finished their coffees, and then, with a sigh, John levered himself up on his feet with his cane and briskly hobbled alongside his old medical schoolmate towards Mike’s car.  He wondered who Mike’s friend was, what kind of person he was, and why he liked to spend his time at Barts if he wasn’t a student there.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Since this is a pre-Sherlock story, this is where I have chosen to end it.  All of you know the result of <i>this</i> reunion! =)  There’s an old saying: “The darkest hour is just before dawn.”  Well, this is John’s darkest hour, and though he doesn’t know it yet, his dawn is looming just ahead!  Sad to say, as we Sherlock fans all know, this won’t be his only darkest hour. =(</p><p>Thanks to Ariane DeVere for providing the episode transcripts!  With those, I was able to copy and paste the dialogue from “A Study in Pink” that I included in this chapter.</p><p>The blog messages and comments, I copied and pasted from <a href="http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/">John Watson’s blog</a> on the Internet.  All errors in the blog entries are John Watson's and those of his reviewers.</p><p><b>(26)</b> The phrase written by Ella Thompson in her notes during John’s first therapy session can be found in Chapter 1 of BlueSkye12’s WIP, “Therapy Can Be Very Helpful,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10561454/1/Therapy-Can-Be-Very-Helpful">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011389/chapters/4360950">Archive of Our Own</a>.  If you wish to read how John’s therapy sessions went, I highly recommend that you read that story!  I regret to say that like her other WIP, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033433/chapters/2059605">“Adjusting,”</a> it’s unfinished and apparently in a state of permanent hiatus, but what BlueSkye12 wrote of that story before she ended all work on it is most interesting.</p><p>I want to thank all of you who have read this story to the finish for sticking with it!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>*FOB: forward operating base.  I have no way of knowing which of the FOBs had their own field hospitals in 2009, so I invented one for FOB Hamidullah.</p><p>I've borrowed from John's nightmare at the beginning of "A Study in Pink" to create the scenario in which he got shot.</p><p>The bit about the photos, I borrowed from BlueSkye12’s story, “Permission Denied,” which is posted on <a href="https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9869349/1/Permission-Denied">Fanfiction.net</a> and <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055897">Archive of Our Own</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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